Your Heart's Desire
by CreepingMuse
Summary: A collection of Sleepy Hollow mini-fics inspired by prompts. Mostly Ichabbie, though a few Jenny/Irving/Macey-centric fics. Smut, fluff, angst, we've got it all. Originally appeared on Tumblr as the 250 Fic Giveaway.
1. Part One

_Hello, friends! So right about the time Sleepy Hollow was going on its winter hiatus, I hit 250 followers on Tumblr. On a lark, I decided to ask my followers for fic prompts. I promised to fill them all. It seemed like a fun way to fill the hiatus...and correct some of the directions the seasons has taken so far. _

_I may have underestimated the interest level. I wound up with 53 ficlets ranging from a hundred words to two thousand. Some of them are really dark; some of them are the fluffiest, silliest things I've ever written. They are presented here with the original unedited prompt (usernames are Tumblr names) and in no particular order. There is no internal continuity - some fics are strictly canonical; some involve an established relationship between Ichabod and Abbie; a few involve AUs where characters like Katrina or Hawley don't exist. Read the prompts and you should be fine. _

_Thanks to everyone who participated in this experiment; it was an absolute blast. I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>tylerbabe1231asked: Hello Creeping Muse these are my prompt.. motorcycle ride, day at the beach and sex in archives or the cabin<strong>

He let her drive the bike. That always made her happy. Not just because he drove like a bat out of hell, but because she loved the rattle and hum of the engine between her legs, the security of having his arms wrapped around her waist, the way he would rest his big old head on her shoulder as they flew down the road.

They turned their backs on the river and meandered their way across the county. They took the side roads, whizzing past cemeteries and green valleys and a metric fuckton of country clubs. Occasionally Crane would shout something in her ear, pointing out some battle site or the half-ruined home of an old friend, but mostly they let the roar of the engine and the closeness of their bodies speak for them.

They stopped in the Town of Rye and ate fish and chips overlooking Long Island Sound. Crane doused his in way too much malt vinegar, a move Abbie was convinced was designed to keep her from stealing his fries. Later, when they walked down on the beach, shoes in hand, he bought ice cream to make up for it, and didn't even complain when she immediately ate the crunchy, chocolatey bit at the bottom of the cone and sticky sweetness ran all over their hands.

Neither one of them was tempted by the water. Crane didn't swim, and Abbie wasn't much for it since her surprise dunking in the Hudson a few years back. But they sat in the sand and built rough castles – one of which Crane claimed was an exact replica of his ancestral home – and watched the fishermen cast their lines and the kids chase seagulls.

As they headed back for the bike, a cold wind kicked up from the west and fat raindrops fell from the sky. For once Abbie was glad Crane wore his big old coat even in the summer, because now he wrapped it around her shoulders. They laughed as the sleeves fell long over her hands and kept laughing as they mounted the bike and swam toward home.

And nowhere had ever felt as much like home as the cabin. Sometimes it was too small, yeah, and she was set to murder Crane if he didn't shut his face about some new modern outrage or some ancient piece of boring trivia. But mostly it was warm and cozy and filled with good memories. More of them every day.

They were drenched to the bone when they stumbled through the door, but that was just the perfect excuse to pull dripping clothes from slick limbs, to push wet hair from panting faces, to quickly stoke the fire and collapse in front of it in a tangled pile of limbs.

"This was a good day," she murmured when they were dry and drowsy, Crane's hand twitching across her belly, her leg dangling over his hip.

"They are all good days, so long as I'm with you."

She laughed. "That's a lie. We've had some fucking awful days." Some of them because of demons. Some of them because of loss. Some of them because they were shitheads and couldn't always find the right words or keep the right promises.

"I would not trade even the very worst of them for a thousand years without you."

She looked up at him somberly. "You mean that? You wouldn't go back if you could? Wouldn't go back to being a hero and a husband and a father and all those things you were meant to be?"

"This is what I am meant to be. And where. And when." He punctuated each phrase with a deceptively soft kiss. "I have no doubt of that, Abigail. Nor should you."

She didn't have much to say to that. Wasn't sure what even could be said. So she pulled one of the big, scratchy flannel blankets down over them and he soon he was fast asleep, making that weird whistling noise of his.

Only then did she find the courage to reply. "I love you," she said for the first time.

She swore she saw him smile.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: This is an amazing thing you are doing with the fics by request <strong>** I really wanted to request a smut-fic but with my uneasy icabbie feels with this rollercoaster of a 2nd season I'm hesitant ****...what about a game night? With Jenny too! Pls and thnx!**

The game night was Ichabod's idea.

Making it competitive was Abbie's.

Making it a drinking game was Jenny's.

"Back before people spent their precious leisure hours staring slack-jawed at a jangling box, we spent them in convivial companionship," he'd sniffed. "We could play at blind man's buff or Pope Joan for days. And I'll have you know I was a noted champion at snap-dragon. I only seriously burned myself the once."

"No games involving fire," Abbie had ruled. "But I like the idea of busting out the board games. But let's make it interesting."

The winner of the three-part game extravaganza would be exempt from the tedious job of cleaning and maintaining weapons for a month. No more oiling guns, no more sharpening blades, no more scrubbing ectoplasm off body armor. Everyone agreed it was a pretty choice prize.

"That raises the stakes a little, but I wouldn't say it makes it _interesting._Every time you lose a hand or get a question wrong or whatever, you have to drink. Every time you lose a game, you have to take a shot."

Abbie wasn't as crazy about that idea. The other two had height and weight on her in the drinking department. But she did have experience. In the end, they'd all agreed. One blustery Friday night, they all flopped in front of the cabin's fireplace with a few pitchers of margaritas and a stack of games.

Abbie went first. _Trivial Pursuit._It wasn't her favorite game (_Settlers of Catan_for the win), but it was one where she knew she had an advantage. Crane was missing out on two hundred odd years of pop culture and history; Jenny was often out of the loop on account of her traveling and her other…time away.

She filled out her pie first, but they had her sweating there for a minute. Jenny dominated at sports and geography, while Crane gave a surprisingly strong showing in arts and literature. But they all found themselves taking a few sips of their drinks as they fumbled questions on the date of Elvis' first concert, the number of players on a volleyball team, and which fingernail grows the fastest.

"A clever strategy, Lieutenant," Crane said after he finished coughing from his shot of tequila. "But I am confident my game will be your undoing."

"Talk, talk, talk. I'll believe it when I see it."

Crane must have done some research, because he pulled out a copy of _Pictionary._

"Really?" Jenny asked. "You could've picked some random old-timey game no one's ever heard of, but you go for _Pictionary_?"

"Unlike your sister, Miss Jenny, I am a kind and benevolent soul. I would _never _play upon my opponent's lack of cultural knowledge to feed my own ambition." Abbie blew him a raspberry. He ignored it and continued: "Rather, I shall play to my own strengths. I have a steady hand and a memory of some renown. I am confident that you are…what is the phrase? 'Going down'?"

They didn't have enough players for true teams, so they all gave their word they would guess honestly. The artist got two points; the correct guesser received one.

It was a close game. Yeah, Crane was the best drawer, no doubt about it. His drawings weren't just clear, they were clever. Sometimes too clever. Jenny and Abbie stared at him blankly as he scribbled what looked like a drinking glass with a dark splotch on it.

"I got nothin'," Jenny said.

"The Holy Grail?" Abbie shot in the dark.

"Oh for the love of – it's stained glass!"

They made him take two drinks for the awful pun.

Abbie was a lousy artist but a great guesser. And Jenny was just _fast_ – she could slam out a recognizable hippo in ten seconds, or guess "first base" before Abbie had even figured out which way was up. But in the end, Crane won. He looked unbearably smug as he poured their penalty shots.

Abbie was feeling no pain at this point. She wasn't drunk, but everything was warm and slightly out of focus. She clapped her hands together. "Okay, Jenny. What game am I going to whup your asses in next?"

Jenny produced a deck of cards from some Indian casino upstate. "Poker."

Abbie grinned. Perfect. For a while there, she'd played in a monthly poker night with Corbin and some guys from the department. "Hold 'em?"

"Yup." Jenny shuffled the cards once, then looked up at them innocently. "Did I mention it's strip poker?"

Abbie took a drink. "You really wanna do that to Crane?"

"He's a big boy. I heard those Revolutionary War camps could get pretty wild. You in?"

Crane's eyes darted uncertainly between the sisters. "_Strip_. As in…?"

"We don't have to do it," Abbie said. "We can just play it straight.

"No we can't. The rules were that each person gets to pick one game. This is mine."

"It all seems in good fun, Lieutenant. But if you would rather not, of course we shall demure."

Yeah. Like she was gonna back down in the face of Jenny's smirk or Crane's overly solicitous concern. She took another drink. "Fuck it. It's not gonna be a problem for me anyway because I'm gonna win."

They took a few minutes to explain the game to Crane, but he caught on fast. "It is but a variant of brag. Simple enough."

Jenny took the first two hands. Shoes came off. Abbie had a run of stellar cards with the next two hands and managed to keep her socks on, but then Crane realized how easy it was for him to count cards and he roared back. Soon Abbie was shedding her jacket.

That was just as well anyway. Between the tequila and the fire, she was feeling almost uncomfortably warm.

As Abbie's jacket hit the floor, Jenny stood and yawned. "You guys have fun. I've got a thing."

"You're not fucking serious."

"But Miss Jenny, we were so enjoying the pleasure of your company. You can't just leave now."

"Can and will. I'm meeting a contact about a thing we're gonna want. I'll tell you more tomorrow. Besides, you guys are both up a game on me." She waggled her fingers and before Abbie could threaten to murder her baby sister, she swept out into the night.

Abbie and Crane stared at each other. Yeah, it definitely was hot in here.

"We needn't finish. Or we needn't finish with these particular stakes."

Ever the gentleman. But it was just a game. Just a stupid game. People played strip poker all the time and it didn't mean anything.

"Deal the cards."

With just the two of them, the hands came quickly. Her straight flush beat his two pair. His coat was folded neatly on the floor. She won again with some award-winning bluffing, squeaking by with a pair sevens.

He tugged his shirt off over his head a little too casually, a shade too quickly. He got tangled in the head hole for a minute but was soon folding it and laying it on top of his coat. God, she always forgot how skinny he was. Made her want to go fix him a sandwich here and now. But there was lean muscle there too, and just enough hair to keep him from looking like a scrawny sophomore. His hand fidgeted over his scar. Was he self-conscious about it? Or was his hand just drawn there, right to his heart?

"I believe it is your deal," he prompted, licking salt from his lips.

"Oh. Right."

It was getting harder to keep track of the cards. How many aces were out? Shit. Focus. You're not that drunk, Abbie. And just because Crane's sitting there half naked is no excuse to lose.

She lost.

She refused to make a production out of this. It was nothing he hadn't seen before anyway, back when they'd barely known each other two weeks. Why did it matter now? She yanked her shirt off defiantly and threw it aside; fuck folding. She met his eyes and dared him to say something.

He didn't. But he looked. His eyes fell down over her, slowly, not rushing to her tits. They caressed down the column of her throat, lingered at her collar bones. And yeah, he took in the soft mounds of her breasts, but then he moved downward, across her stomach, playing about her navel, the button of her pants. Then he met her eyes again and reached for the deck of cards.

They both squinted at their hands. "Ladies first," Crane offered.

She showed her cards. Four jacks.

Something in his face twitched. He lowered his hand. A minor flush.

Abbie leaned back on her elbows. Fuck it. Fuck feeling weird. Maybe it was the tequila talking, but this was supposed to be _fun._She was going to enjoy the show goddamn it.

Crane rose –and rose and rose – and reached for the buttons of his pants. He gave her a quick glance, to make sure she wasn't going to faint away of the vapors, she guessed, and then slipped out of those ridiculous trousers.

She knew he was a boxer man because she's the one who bought them for him. But buying them and seeing them were two different things. It wasn't that seeing him in them was sexy, exactly, but it was…vulnerable. Private. Something she wasn't supposed to see.

She couldn't look away.

"You seem to have me on the run, Abigail. One more hand and you could win it all."

"Better get to it then, huh?"

He sat back on the floor, carefully cross-legged. She dealt. He was silent for a long, long moment. He pulled his cards into a neat pile and placed them on the floor in front of him. "I fold."

"You can't _fold._Not now. Not this close to the end. You're just scared of how hard I'm gonna whip your—"

She flipped his cards over. A royal flush.

She looked from him to the cards and back again. Maybe he didn't understand. He was still new to the game, after all. "Crane, this is—"

"I fold," he repeated. "If ever I am granted access to the fullness of your body, I wish it to be of your own desire. Not due to the follies of a card game."

Jesus. He meant it. He said stuff like that, and to the very bottom of his soul, _he meant it._

Abbie turned her back on him. She slid a finger beneath the strap of her bra. "It can be because of both, can't it?"

She let her hand fall. It was up to him. If he was serious, if this was what he wanted to do, then he could do it. If not, they'd chalk it up to the booze and repress. You know, the healthy way of dealing with things.

But then his calloused fingers were on her back. There was no fumbling with the bra; it was unfastened in a hot minute. But he took his time pushing the straps down. First one. Then the other. The bra fell away and he traced where it had been, drawing lines along her shoulders, around the curve of her torso with a long finger.

By the time he actually found her breasts, hefted their weight in his hands, thumbed across her nipples, Abbie was ready to burst into flames. But he continued to take his time, tracing these new hidden places of her body, savoring her every angle and aspect without ever even _looking_at them.

After what felt like forever (after what felt like a second), his hands found their way to the top of her jeans. "Is it necessary for us to play the final two hands, or…?"

"I fold."

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><p><strong>ambrosiajones<strong>**asked: Hi! I'm new to SH (but all caught up and angry!) and I love your fics so much and I have an idea: established relationship (Maybe they haven't done the do yet? Everything but?), perhaps an argument? Ichy loses control in a similar fashion to "Necromancer" with the yelling, and then takes control, if you know what I mean. (I mean bossy, "I'm in charge!" sex.) And Abby is crazy turned on and bites her lip and maybe says "Yes, sir" and oh my god I'm so sorry. Thank you!**

Abbie planted a foot in the minion's chest and yanked her sword free. "I think that was the last of—"

A rush of air _wooshed _up behind her. Crane roared. There was a wet, squishy sound. A small _thud._Then a big one. When Abbie spun around, Crane was standing over a decapitated minion. His shoulders heaved; a line of the creature's blood spattered across his face in a dark diagonal slash.

"Shit. Thanks for having my back."

Crane kicked the head like a soccer ball, sending it soaring off into the woods. Then he kicked the body. Again and again he shoved his boot into the thing's rib cage until it turned into a pulpy, formless mass. He planted his foot right on the thing's sternum and stomped down with a sickening _crunch_. And that's when Abbie pulled him away.

"Whoa, whoa. Take it easy."

He shook her arm free but at least he didn't go back to pulverizing the corpse. "How can I be _easy_when you could very nearly died at that creature's hands?"

"I very nearly die like twelve times a day. The important thing is that I didn't."

She expected the piss to run out of him. For him to apologize and hold her face softly and tell her how terrified he was and how precious she was. For him to kiss her like she was made of cotton candy and might melt away. That was usually the way these things happened. And it was _nice_. It was still weird and wonderful to be treated like someone who needed to be protected.

But Crane didn't play to form. Instead, he walked away from her, fingers raking through his hair, heels digging into the ground with every step.

Abbie gave him a minute. She took the time to admire how his anger made his neck draw up into cords, how his hands were for once still, balled into fists at his side, how his shoulders seemed to grow even broader with his rage.

She found him pacing by the car. "You okay?"

"I suppose I should be the one asking you that question." His voice was still tight and a couple notches lower than usual. He looked up at her. "You _are_all right, are you not?"

"Yes, sir." She caught her lip between her teeth. She didn't see Crane lose it very often. He kept everything all very wound up and British. So to see him, for once, just _feel _something instead of _think _something…yeah. It did things to her. "Thanks to you."

That got through the last echoes of his blood lust. His eyes flickered over her body, lingering at the places where her shirt clung, where the neck had been tugged down to reveal more cleavage than usual.

"I think you deserve a reward." She swayed forward, accentuating the swing of her hips. But she didn't touch him. She needed to make sure that he really _was_okay enough for this. That neither one of them were gonna get hurt. "What do you think it should be?"

Crane drew in two deep, shaky breaths. Shit. She must've misread something. "Hey, rain check. Let's just go home, get cleaned up." She turned toward the car. "We'll get some sleep and—"

She yelped as he seized her hips with both hands, his fingers digging into her flesh. He ground against her ass, hard and ready. She guessed it was called blood_lust_for a reason after all. "Now will do, Lieutenant."

Abbie swirled back against him, harder than she usually would have. Testing him. Usually he was perpetually (and sometimes irritatingly) romantic, sweet and tender, like they were on the cover of some fucking romance novel.

But she had a feeling that tonight might be a little different.

He grunted and bent his head. He kissed roughly down the line of her jaw, down her neck. He found that sensitive cradle where her shoulder met her neck and bit down with full force. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to send electric waves of pain and pleasure jolting through her. She gasped and grabbed his thigh to stabilize herself. He'd never—not once—but—

Jesus.

His hands darted up under her shirt. Feathery caresses were replaced with scrabbling fingers tugging insistently at nipples. Palms scraped, nails scratched.

Abbie made a noise she wasn't sure was quite human and bucked back against him.

"All right?" His mouth was flush against her ear, his voice low.

She just nodded. This was no time for _talking,_and for once even Crane seemed to get that. He nipped at her earlobe, pulled at the stud long enough to make her ache. Then he was kissing and biting down her neck and his hands were fumbling with his pants.

Abbie took her cue and tugged her own jeans down. Her pussy quivered as it met the chilly air. It trembled again when he put a hand around the back of her neck and bent her over the hood of the car.

There was no teasing. No more foreplay. He was just _in_, to the very hilt. It was fast enough and just premature enough to sting, but Abbie did. Not. Care. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the slick car hood, but he was holding her tightly enough that she didn't need to worry. She pressed her cheek against the cold metal and turned off the part of her that thought as he pistoned into her fast and harsh and perfect.

He pushed her up the hood until she stood on her tiptoes. He arched up from beneath her deeper and harder, hitting places she wasn't sure he'd ever hit before. And when she felt him tensing, heard him gasping and growling, that's when he finally reached around and flicked her clit mercilessly, over and over again until her scream bounced off the trees and she just disappeared.

When she opened her eyes again (when she remembered she _had_eyes again), Crane had laid her gently on the grass and was curled around her, making shushing noises into her hair.

"Fuck me," she whispered through a raw throat.

"I believe I just did." She gave his smug face a playful smack. "Do forgive me, dear Abbie. With the battle and then your unexpected offer, I fear I may have become a bit carried away in the moment."

"Yeah. I'm pretty pissed about it in case you couldn't tell." She stretched languidly and settled her head against his shoulder. She could still feel a faint throb beating between her legs; she could already feel a pleasant ache where his teeth had marked her. She was gonna have to bust out the concealer tomorrow.

Still didn't care.

"I was just so terribly worried. And then so terribly _angry_at that thing for almost taking you from me and—"

"I accept your apology." He could go on like this for days if she didn't just give him absolution. Better to just get it out of the way. "On one condition."

"You need only speak it."

"You promise to fuck me like that more often."

His laugh rumbled through her. He ghosted his lips across her neck. "I am ever at your command, madam."

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><p><strong>primarybufferpanel <strong>**asked: Heya, I sent you a Jenny/Big Ash prompt, not sure if it arrived? (you mentioned you'd only gotten Ichabbie prompts). In any case, if Jenny & Big Ash is a thing you write, I'd love something about (the first time?) a post victory drink turns into post-victory making out. Or anything about the two of them you feel inspired to write, really :-)**

Jenny kept her hands shoved into her pockets as she examined Big Ash's collection. Her fingers itched to test the edges of the flint knives, feel the cool glaze of the painted pots, read the stories of the intricate bits of beadwork with her fingertips. But Ash was being incredibly cool by letting her look at these precious objects at all. She could never disrespect him by polluting them.

"This is incredible. I thought most of these objects had been destroyed centuries ago – holy shit, is that what I think it is?"

Ash peered over her shoulder at the ancient stick, the leather webbing eaten away almost entirely by time. "Manabozho's lacrosse stick. One of my favorites. No mystical powers, but a hell of a story."

"Just – wow." So much history. So much power in one place, lovingly maintained through the most impossible circumstances. She managed to tear herself away from the beauty before her and beamed up at Ash. "Thank you for this. And for keeping Ichabod from getting his fool self killed. Again."

Ash shrugged his massive shoulders. "Seems like he'll get his wish one day."

"But not today."

"But not today," Ash echoed with the smallest smirk. But his eyes lingered on hers, then dipped to her own lips before swooping back up. "Stay for a drink?"

"Yeah, sure."

After closing the artifact trunk and knocking out a quick lock spell, Ash led the way to the chest cooler in the corner of the shop. Rocket was sprawled on his side on top of it, looking cozy and conked the fuck out in his little dog hoodie. Ash picked him up so gently, the dog didn't even wake up. He just kicked his sticklike legs and sighed when he was placed on his giant, fluffy bed.

Jenny had never much cared for tiny dogs; at that point, just get a cat and then you don't have to walk it. But if Ash loved that stupid shivering thing so much, there must be something to them after all. "Cute," she said.

"He looks that way, yeah. But he once ate a guy's pinky finger. I wouldn't fuck with him. Would I? Would I? No, we don't fuck with Rocket." His voice went high and playful as he rubbed the dog's belly. Jenny had no idea if he was joking or not. She decided not to laugh, just to be safe.

After a quick pat, Ash dug a few bottles out of the cooler. Craft beer from somewhere upstate. He passed one of the wet brews to her and she popped her own top off. "To saving the world. Again. Some more."

They clinked. "World seems more worth saving when I'm doing it with you than with Hawley."

Jenny laughed this time. "Yeah, he's an asshole all right. I never understood why you didn't punch his teeth in after the way he treated you guys."

Ash drank. Jenny did too; the beer was shockingly good. "Too direct. But we got ours. You shouldn't trust every virility charm you're sold." Jenny nearly did a spit take as Ash held up his index finger and slowly let it droop down.

"You didn't. _He _didn't."

Ash took another drink.

"That is too fucking good. Ah, man. I wish I could be there when he figures it out." She shuddered. "Wait, no I don't."

"He mentioned you a few times. I thought you two were fucking."

"Not any more. Not for a long time now." The chair creaked as Ash shifted. The silence was heavy and yeah, Jenny felt a little judged. "Sometimes when you get out of the nuthouse for the fourth time, you feel a little fragile and you wind up hooking up with a blond hobbit for a while, you know?"

"Happens to the best of us." That awkward tension melted as they both shared a short laugh.

But it was quickly replaced with a different kind of tension. Jenny became hyperaware of just how close they were sitting in the lawn chairs that made up the shop's décor. Their knees almost touched. And every time he moved, she was hit by the smell of him, a weird but appealing mix of sage and motor oil.

"How about you? You've gotta have a biker babe of your own, yeah?"

Ash's tongue flashed pink as he delicately licked a drop of beer from his bottle. He set it aside. Then his hand was on her knee, thumb just stroking against the bony cap. "Why? Do you ride?"

Jenny was on him so fast her beer plinked to the ground and the smell of yeast exploded everywhere. But neither of them cared much. They were too busy weaving their fingers through long, dark hair, discovering the rhythms of their lips and tongues, and stripping off their vests.

* * *

><p><strong>irishfino<strong>**asked: a demon is attacking a nudist colony for reasons**

Abbie tugged her shirt over her head. She hadn't realized how cold she was until she was starting to warm up again.

Behind her, Crane fumbled with the billion buttons on his trousers. "Let us agree never to speak of this day. Ever."

"Deal."

"Uh, no deal. Are you kidding? Did you see that woman with the tits the size of my head? And _Abbie_, did you see the size of Crane's—"

Abbie lifted a foot and whupped her sister's still-bare ass.

"—bayonet," Jenny muttered.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: Hi, idea for a prompt was for newly "divorced" Ichabod to see a kiss between Nick and Abbie. He begins to act different and perhaps she starts to investigate? While I'm not a Nabbie shipper, I just want Ichabod to squirm a bit.<strong>

**My dear sweet Non, I love you, Abbie, and myself too much to write that nasty ship even as a means to Ichabod and Abbie. Will you accept Luke as a substitute?**

The words on the page were indecipherable hieroglyphs to her tired eyes. She checked the cover of the book to make sure she wasn't actually _supposed _to be reading hieroglyphs, but nope. Latin. Probably a good sign to call it a night.

"I'm gonna head out. We'll hit it again first thing in the morning."

"But Lieutenant, we're making real progress here." Crane swept his arms wide, indicating the messy pile of papers and books they'd acquired. "Surely a few hours more and we'll have cracked it."

"We've made no progress in the last five hours. In fact, because you realized you mistranslated those runes, we actually went in reverse."

Crane hovered up behind her and took her by the shoulders. "All the more reason to keep cracking at it. Sit. Please, sit. I'll just boil up a fresh pot of coffee and—"

Not again. Not tonight. She wasn't going to play this fucking game. She ducked under his hands and spun to face him. "This is not cute anymore. What's up with you?"

Crane had always been a drain on her time, between his Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer schtick and the real business of averting the apocalypse, but in the last couple weeks he'd gotten almost compulsive about being together. Whenever she tried to leave, he'd find some excuse why they had to research a little more, train a little harder, hunt a little longer. One night she swore he'd even faked being sick just so she'd stay and watch a few more episodes of _House Hunters International_while he gave counterfeit sneezes.

As always when she called him out, Crane looked like someone had clubbed a family of baby seals in front of him. "Nothing is _up_. I have merely recommitted myself to the seriousness of our cause. If you do not hold it in the same esteem as I do, I of course understand."

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. _Nope._"You can shove your seriousness up your ass."

She grabbed her bag. Then _he _grabbed her bag. For a minute she thought this was going to turn into a tug-of-war – one which she would win, make no damn mistake – but then he let go. At least he had the good manners to look embarrassed.

"Lieutenant, please. Forgive me. I spoke in anger. No one could ever be more stalwart and dedicated than you."

"I'm out." She threw the bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. Was almost gone, almost dared think that she'd successfully gotten the last word for once, when—

"Why are you so eager to go? Are you off to see him?"

Ah. And there it was. She stopped but didn't turn. "Who?"

"Officer Morales," he gloomed. "I happened to espy you across the town square. I would have hailed you, but then both of your mouths were rather occupied at the time."

She hadn't expected to get back with Luke. But after the whole thing in the cabin he'd needed someone to talk to. And one thing led to another and well, Luke always knew how to make sure she was taken care of. She wasn't sorry. "Grown-ass woman kisses hot guy, film at eleven. What's your problem?"

Crane drew in a breath to launch into a lecture—and held it. He dipped his head and scuffed a foot across the floor. "When I saw you, I…didn't like it."

"I know you don't like Luke. I don't care. He's funny and honest and he eats me out like a fucking _dream,_Crane." She didn't even know if he understood that phrase but she didn't care. She was on a roll now and there was no stopping her. "And then he makes me breakfast, okay? He's fun and he's easy to be with, so forgive me if I don't give a good goddamn what you think of him."

She was a little out of breath after that. She wanted to sit down, but—no. She'd be gone soon anyway. And she hadn't been planning on going to Luke's, but you'd better believe she'd ride him like a bronco tonight.

Crane was quiet, as if making sure there wasn't more coming. Then finally: "My visceral reaction had nothing to do with my feelings toward Officer Morales."

She refused to give him the satisfaction of asking why. She waited.

"That night I realized that it did not matter whose lips were upon yours. I would always wish they were mine instead." His head was bowed so she couldn't see his face. Come to think of it, she couldn't feel her own face. It was half numb and half consumed in flames. And he was still talking. "I realized I wanted more than anything to know how you taste." He panted out a laugh. "I've tried to imagine it ever since, breathing in your scent and twisting it about in my head. I've come close, I think, but my musings must fall so very short of the reality."

It would be so easy to run to him right now. To tell him that yeah, she'd wondered too. That she'd woken up so many nights swearing she could smell him, not just his familiar wool and wood smoke, but the way he smelled when he was slicked with sweat, when the room was heavy with musk and he tasted like salt and sex. That she got lost sometimes watching his hands until she had to grind her thighs together to stop the throbbing.

That it was deeper than any of that and it gave her feelings she didn't have names for, feelings she didn't dare look at too closely, lest they grow wings and fly away.

So. Fucking. Easy.

But instead, she looked at him with narrowed eyes. "And so you decided to respond to this knowledge by being a possessive asshole?"

His shoulders slumped. He threw his hands up and let them slap against his sides as they fell. "Hello. Have we met? I'm Ichabod Crane."

Abbie laughed. She felt like a traitor, but she laughed.

That gave him the courage to look at her. He moved closer, but stopped six feet short. "I am sorry. For all of it. Even for feeling this way about you. I know you'd prefer…I know it'd be simpler if…" He trailed off with a hopeless shrug.

And yeah, he was right. It'd be simpler. Like Luke was simple. It was never gonna be that way with Crane. Never could be.

But maybe it could be hard and messy and complicated and _worth it._

She took the last two steps toward him.

Turns out she had a lousy imagination.

She was okay with that.

* * *

><p><strong>jupisan<strong>**asked: 250 prompt: fencing, under AU meeting the parents**

**A/N: I'm not much on AUs, so I'm going to stick to fencing. Established relationship.**

The Sword of Methuselah was stupid. Who the fuck designs a sword that kills the person who wields it? That is a poorly designed weapon right there. No, give her the distance, accuracy, and not-killing-the-shooter-ness of a gun any day over this hunk of steel.

But she had to admit, it was beautiful. And swords seemed to keep coming up in their fight. Yeah, she'd managed to spit the Pied Piper pretty okay on instinct alone, but that was only going to get her so far.

She hefted the sword. "I want you to teach me to fence."

Crane had his nose almost pressed against some scroll he was reading. "Insert the pointy bit into your enemy. Repeat as necessary. Clean thoroughly once finished."

"I'm being serious, Crane."

He squinted over at her. He was going to ruin his eyeballs with all this reading; one of these days, she'd have to take him to an eye doctor. But for now, sword fighting had to be the priority. "You'll not fight with that cursed sword. We've been through this."

"In our fucked-up world, there is always another magic sword. And I need to learn how to use them. I taught you how to fire a modern gun." Which had actually been easy, since he was used to garbage weapons with miserable aim. Having a multi-round weapon with a sight had been a revelation for Crane. But this was a little farther outside her frame of reference.

Crane cracked his back – Abbie cringed – and stood. He plucked the sword from her hand, but held it only with the tips of his fingers, as if the soul-stealing magic was catching. "As much as I loathe to admit it, I am perhaps not the most able of instructors when it comes to the sword." He flipped the weapon in his hand. "There is a very simple reason Abraham always managed to best me at dueling: At its finest, my swordplay was mediocre."

"Ichabod Crane admitting he's not good at something? Bless my soul."

Her teasing worked: some of that sadness fled, and he managed a thin smile. "Yes, yes, quite shocking I know. But I fear spreading my poor form and lack of finesse to you."

"So you'd rather I just blindly swing a dangerous weapon around?" She kept her tone light; it was the only way to get through to him. If she made it too serious, he'd shut down and never show her how imperfect he was. "Sounds like a good plan. Okay. We'll do that." She took a step away. On the count of one, two…

"Oh, very well. If you insist." He dropped the Sword of Methuselah onto the table as the world's deadliest paperweight. She grinned and trotted over to the weapons cabinet. The rusty old swords they'd gotten for the Henry gambit were shitty, but they'd work. And hell, they were dull as butter knives, which was actually a bonus here.

She handed him one of the swords, but he immediately set it on the table too. "We are ages away from you facing an opponent, Lieutenant. It all begins with your form." Despite his protestations, he sure fell into the teacher role easily.

"I don't need to be fancy. I don't care if I look stupid doing it. I just need to be effective."

"And if you understand the proper way to carry yourself, you will be. The rest is simply frosting on the cake."

She swallowed a smile. "Yeah. Okay. So show me."

She expected him to pick up the sword and, you know, _show_her. But instead, he stepped behind her.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Teaching you, of course. You hold the blade like so." He molded her hands around the grip. Hilt. Whatever. "As though you are opening a door. Thumb like so, just against the crosspiece."

"Easy enough."

"As for your stance." He tickled his fingers down the side of her waist, over her hip. He drew a teasing circle around the top of her thigh, just where it met the rest of her body. Then in a practiced and familiar gesture, he nudged her legs apart. "Just there."

She was only human. She shivered and burned. But she wasn't happy about it. "Crane, stop dicking around. I really want to learn this."

"And so I am teaching you, am I not?" He ran his hands lower, one on each leg, to the backs of her knees. He gave a playful poke until she bent her knees. "Exactly so. And remain on the balls of your feet for quick turns, if you please."

Oh, fuck him. Part of her wanted to do exactly that. But the sensible part of her wanted to learn how not to die. So she ignored him as much as humanly possible. "Got it. Kinda like a batting stance. Easy. What's next?"

"The bits with the pointy end." He rose back to his full height and folded his giant body around hers. His hand wrapped around the entirety of her wrist with freakish ease. "A high block," he said, lifting her arm to just above her head. "And a low block." At her waist this time. As he moved, he scooted his hips against her until she could feel the outline of him through those stupid baggy pants of his.

"You ever consider that this is why you sucked at fencing?" She repeated the motion. High. Low. The sword was heavy, its weight strange in her hand. But she'd get it. She could do it.

"Oh, my instructor was a crabbed old soldier with terrible lumbago. Not nearly so distracting as I am." She almost dropped the sword on her feet when his lips brushed the back of her neck. "Fine form, though."

"If you don't take this seriously, you aren't gonna have any distraction for a while." She bumped back against him.

"I assure you, I have never been more serious in my entire bizarrely long life." He sucked her earlobe into his mouth and she couldn't bite back her gasp. He loved playing with her stud earring, flicking it with the tip of his tongue.

"You too scared to teach me? Is that it?" She hadn't expected her voice to be so breathy, but there it was. "I know you think you're bad at this, but—"

"I am not afraid. I am smitten."

Yeah. Well. Both things can be true.

She let the sword clatter to the floor and whipped around in his arms so fast he nearly fell over. "Let's make a deal. You give me one solid hour of good teaching, and I will show you a few yoga moves I've been saving for a rainy day. How's that sound?"

His hands came to rest on her waist; they nearly wrapped all the way around. "When you say _yoga_, you do mean—"

She grabbed a handful of his ass. He bucked his hips forward. "Yes, Crane. I mean naked yoga."

He snatched the sword from the ground and pressed it into her hand. "To arms, Lieutenant. Quickly, I say, to arms."


	2. Part Two

**violethuntress replied to your post****"Sleepy Hollow Fic Giveaway"**

**I might just go ahead and prompt: can you fix "heartless" so that crane realizes he desires Abbie? And for ~plot~ reasons has to tell her about it? I love things v close to canon but wouldn't mind if it were au: Katrina doesn't exist. Thx so much 4 this!**

**A/N: ****Per violethuntress' request, Katrina doesn't exist. Per my request, neither does Hawley, because let's take out all the trash at once.**

He did not look up when she entered. He tried hard not to look at her now. Not since the seed was planted and the doubt and the uncertainty (and the _certainty_) began to sprout inside him. It did not help. But he did try.

"Bad news." She flung herself into the seat opposite him. The slump in her voice matched the boneless, weary way she slid down into the chair, as if she could no longer bear to hold herself upright.

"Of course it is." He turned another page in the musty old grimoire that only confirmed what every other source confirmed: succubi never lie. They are never wrong. They might twist the truth to show its cruelest form, but by nature, they are bound to reproduce the desire found in the hearts of men.

He slammed the book closed. She pushed herself up a bit straighter. "You okay there?"

"Quite. What ill tidings greet us today?"

"Succubus took two more people last night." Ichabod looked up at that. He had to. The pace was accelerating. All because he had been too startled to end things when he had the chance. And yet her face held no judgment. Only sorrow.

"The poor souls," he said.

"It gets worse. Both of them were connected to our initial victims."

"Connected in what way?"

The lieutenant rubbed the back of her neck, fingers probing at unyielding muscle. "Crushes. The first victims had crushes on the second."

The word "crush" was foreign to him, but the meaning was not difficult to divine. Nor were its terrifying implications. "The succubus is consuming the objects of her victims' desire."

"Looks like. Good news is that we haven't found any new initial victims, so we've got some time. But—"

"No." He rose from the table on shaky legs and turned his back on her. He clasped his hands together so tightly his phalanx bones groaned. "There is another."

"Uh? You been hiding a corpse from me?"

Even now she could force an exhalation of laughter from him. "Not a corpse. But something else."

Her chair screeched across the floor as she stood. "I'm gonna need you to get to the point. People are dying out there."

She was right. Of course she was. But what _was _the point? That she was in danger? That he had lied to her? Or that the succubus had shown him something that could tear their partnership asunder?

Or that could….

He kept his back turned. If he had to watch the myriad emotions glimmer across her face, he knew he would never find the courage to speak. "I told you that the succubus did not transform for me. That she remained in the guise of her last victim when I encountered her. I lied."

"Goddammit, Crane." A sigh. "Well. Okay. Who was it?"

He could end this all with a single word. But this topic required more. Endless words, words that did not exist in the language as it stood. Explanations and exculpations and pleas. "I never expected it, Lieutenant. I need for you to know that. Since I first awoke, my only thought has been our mission. Considerations of romance never knowingly entered my mind—or my heart—and yet there the succubus stood."

She circled in front of him. They always seemed to stand a shade too close together, never left quite the breathing room two civilized people should lead between their bodies. "Hey, it's okay. It's human to have feelings for someone. And it's a good thing. It means you're settling in, putting down roots. I'm happy for you. But right now, we need to keep her safe. And that starts with telling me who she is." Her head tilted to the side as she gazed up at him. "Or him. Is that why you're nervous to tell me? Because—"

"She wore a leather jacket." Still the simplest explanation eluded him. Still he could not speak the simple words – _it was you _– but could only describe the guise of the succubus. Could only let her reach the inevitable conclusion on her own. "She jutted her hip to the side and she looked at me in a way that was at once joyful and desolate. She touched my chest and she…" The words dribbled aside as the lieutenant stepped back. One small step. Then two larger ones.

Her absence, as paltry as it was, was immediate and aching. "I never knew. I know you'll not believe me. It sounds like madness. But I never examined my emotions. I allowed myself to be carried along on their current, never realizing that beneath the surface lay…Lieutenant?"

She looked as though she might be ill, right there all over her boots. But she held up a hand like a benediction to stop him. "I'm fine. You're fine. Everybody's fine." She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. When they reopened, there was an emotion he had not seen in her for some time. One which they had painstakingly fought back these last months.

She was guarded, her heart and her mind utterly closed to him.

"I should have seen this coming. With you being new in town and in time and me being the only person you really knew, it would have been surprising if there hadn't been some dependence. Then you add in the Witness thing which is intense and keeps pushing us closer and yeah, of course there's going to be_feelings._"

Was the knowledge of his affection so contemptible to her to turn even the word "feelings" into a sneer? He had known that she would not be pleased with the revelation, and yet the way she crossed her arms over her chest so hard it seemed painful, the way her shoulders rounded as though to protect vulnerable organs, the way she looked at him with eyes that only yielded his own reflection went beyond even his most unhappy prediction.

"I am sorry."

She shook her head hard. "Nothing to apologize for. Nothing. It's a crush, right? That's what those other poor bastards had. Just a crush. They come and go."

He was still unsure on the precise definition of _crush, _but based on context clues, whatever he felt for her – still a vast and undefined question to which he had no answer – did not qualify.

"Anyway, the important thing is that now we know. Thank you for being honest with me. Now we know the succubus is going to come to us. And we can be ready for it."

And that was that. If she had her way, they would never again discuss this. They would retreat into united isolation and feel nothing at all.

"Our first priority must be the defeat of the succubus, of course. But when you face her, she will transform as well. You must be prepared for what you may see."

Her lip quavered. The mirrors of her eyes fell away and she was once more laid bare before him.

They both knew precisely what she would see.

"Then why?" he asked softly.

"If I could explain it to you then I wouldn't have to. Then we could be…" She rolled her eyes heavenward. Unshed tears caught the light. "Then maybe we could _be_ we_."_

Somehow, this magnificent woman had fortified herself behind equally magnificent walls. She had built them high with bricks of loneliness and abandonment. She made self-recrimination her mortar and plastered them with fear. And oh, how she hated those walls. But she was unable to tear them down and take a chance on what was offered her.

He never could hold himself apart from her pain. Not even when he was among its causes. Without thinking, he moved to hold her, as he always had. It was only when she was folded into his arms that he realized how surprising it was that she permitted him to. But for now, he would not question it. He would just rest his cheek upon her crown and savor the softness of her body.

After far too short a forever, she stirred in his arms. She raised on the tips of her toes. Her cheek rested against his; her lips flickered against his ear. "I can't be who you need me to be. And I don't know that you can be who I need." She fell back on her heels as he fought to understand.

"Abbie," he began.

She looked up at him with dry eyes. "I know. I love you too. But it's not enough. Not for us. Not right now." She held out her hand, tiny and trembling. "But we can still kill some fucking demons together. Right?"

The world was tilted slightly off its axis. Nothing was precisely where it was meant to be. But she was here. And in whatever capacity, they were together. Nothing else mattered.

He wiped at his eyes. He took her hand and the two partners marched into battle.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: Abbie and Ichabod have sex with Irving and Jenny in the archives not knowing they're there doing the 'do'. Lol. Last prompt O:)<strong>

"You sure you didn't leave it in that guy?"

"Yeah, Frank, I'm pretty sure I didn't leave the athame of Hecate in some random henchman's chest. I took it out and I cleaned it off and last I saw it was here." Jenny poked through piles of papers crowding the long tables Abbie and Crane seemed to live at these days. "I was talking to Abbie while I was sharpening it and—"

Frank touched her shoulder, then tapped his ear. Jenny kept rustling the book to keep up the constant background noise, but she listened. They were weird noises, almost like a dog whining, but then an unmistakable rhythm. Jenny sniffed the air and choked on a laugh. Oh, this was gonna be fun.

"Abbie? You here?" she called. Frank gave her the weirdest look, but she just grinned and shook her head. He'd catch on.

"Ah, yeah! In the middle of looking for—uh—something." Abbie's voice drifted from the far shelves. The dark, shadowy shelves Jenny knew for a fact contained nothing but copies of the White Pages and Encyclopedia Britannicas from the 1950s.

"You sound out of breath. You need a hand?"

Frank's eyes widened. He bit down on his knuckle to stifle his own laughter.

"N-n-no, I'm fine. Everything okay with you?" A soft thud_,_a muffled voice. "_Shh,_" Abbie hissed.

"Is Crane helping you?" Frank asked, his voice a couple notches higher than normal.

"Crane's not here. He's—_gasp_—coming. Soon."

Jenny took a couple steps toward the stacks, making sure to let her feet fall extra hard. "You shouldn't be back there alone. I'll help."

"I said I've got it." Annoyance. Aw. Jenny almost felt bad, making her sister lose her edge like that. Almost. "If you're looking for your knife, it's on the…on the…I left it right on the…"

Frank finally took pity on her. "On the computer desk. I've got it." He waggled the athame at Jenny.

She rolled her eyes. Everyone was always spoiling her fun. "Thanks. You tell Crane 'hi' for me when you see him, okay?"

"_Yes!"_Abbie cried, the most excited anyone had ever been to tell someone else "hi."

Frank caught her sleeve and towed her toward the door. "We'll see you around, Mills."

The subtle, faint rhythm picked up in speed as they hightailed it out of the armory. They managed to let the door close completely before they dissolved into giggles.

Jenny gasped for breath. "That was—"

"Nothing we haven't done before," Frank pointed out. "In that same aisle. Plus in the tunnels. And on the table. And—"

She shut him up with a kiss. "Yeah, but it's _way _funnier when they do it."

* * *

><p><strong>scabwalker<strong>** asked: Are you still doing story prompts? I've got an interesting idea: imagine Ichabod didn't come to this empathetic revelation on his own about being a dick to Abbie, but rather Sheriff Corbin, no longer able to idly stand by, waits until he's alone and makes an appearance in the hopes of scaring some sense into the man. I'd love to see how you handle this encounter.**

**Via email, from user Jinx6:**

**A scene between Ichabod and Lori where she speaks to him as the other Witness and as a (possible future) suitor for her daughter. The future caveat is in case Katrina is still alive and the break isn't permanent yet in your story. Maybe Lori can comment on Crane's recent inconsistent behavior toward Abbie.**

"We have to go after him. This is our _job, _Crane. This is who we are. And if we aren't trying to take down one of the four Horsemen, then what is even the point in us being partners?"

Crane pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Do be serious, Lieutenant. We are destined to be partners. As long as we are united, we cannot but prevail—"

"That's bullshit." It was the coldness in her voice that made him take notice, yet her eyes blazed. "If this was all predestined, you and I could sip margaritas while the Horsemen just burst into flames because we're the big bad Witnesses. But that's not how this works. We have to be smart and we have to make the tough callsor people die."

"We have those qualities. Yet we temper them with compassion and a belief that everyone deserves redemption." How could kind, good Abbie, the same woman who showed such belief in Joe Corbin and the mother of the Piper's victim show so little regard for his own son? Or, for that matter, his own wife?

Her shoulders slumped. "I can't talk to you like this. Not when you're just spouting Katrina's same tired lines over and over again."

"Now don't walk away angry," he soothed, stepping toward her. "We are more than our minor philosophical differences—"

"Angry's the only way I walk away from you these days." Her eyes fluttered across his face, as if she could not decide between a glare and a plea. "Sometimes I think destiny's the only reason I stay. Sometimes I wonder how long that's going to be enough."

His heart wrenched with a quite physical pain. She did not mean it, surely. These were but angry words, spoken in haste but regretted in perpetuity. And yet she seemed so calm. So sad.

"Abbie." He reached for her arm, but she slithered away before they could touch.

"Stop." He froze, ever obedient to her commands. "I don't want to kiss and make up. Not tonight." She cast one last hard-eyed look at him and then she turned on her heel, leaving him quite alone in the armory.

He sank into his chair. He'd apologize in the morning and she would graciously forgive him and they'd go on their way. They always found a way to keep moving forward. It was what they did best, after all. Katrina would continue researching her spell and he and the lieutenant would continue searching for the next piece of the puzzle and all would be well.

It had to be. It was _destiny._

"I think you're putting too much faith in destiny and too little faith in her, son."

In a twinkling, Ichabod was on his feet and scrambling for the _Glock _on the table. The one the lieutenant insisted he wore but which found rather more useful as a paperweight. But as he surveyed the room with the weapon cocked, he found no speaker.

"Show yourself," he commanded.

"No one put you in charge." Another voice. Female this time. And familiar. "We don't have to listen to you. And neither does she."

The gun trembled in the air before him. But he would not be cowed by the invisible. "Miss Jenny, if this is a jest, I am _not _amused."

"No prank, Crane. We're deathly serious here." The spectral form of Captain Irving flickered into view. He appeared as he had the day he died, his shirt still soaked through with blood, a ghostly approximation of the Sword of Methuselah dangling from his fingertips. To his left, Sheriff Corbin blinked into being, his head blessedly intact, his expression grim. And to his right, the shade of the lieutenant's mother appeared. Her form, however, guttered like a candle flame.

He waited. Surely someone else would appear. Someone from his own life. Father, Mother, Mary, General Washington. Someone for him. But the three spirits from Abbie's past watched him with grave (some awful part of him tittered at the pun) faces.

"How nice to see you all," he said at last. He placed the gun back on the table and held his hands wide in a gesture of welcome. "I would offer you tea, but, well…"

"Cut the crap. We're not here to talk about you. Or to talk about us," Sheriff Corbin said. It was his first time seeing the dead man in the flesh. Well, not in the flesh, but in the…oh, bother. At any rate, he had never seen the Sheriff save in recordings, and now that he did, he found himself slouching a hair. He looked nothing like Ichabod's own father. Sounded like him not at all. Yet something about his commanding presence had the same effect, turning Ichabod into a squirming, naughty schoolboy once more.

"Then what are you here to discuss, sir?" Ichabod clasped his hands behind his back so they did not give him away.

"Abbie. Your partner. Though it seems like you've forgotten about that last part."

God's wounds, how many times did he have to explain this? "I value her more than mere words could ever say. She is far more precious than my own self. She is my partner and I—"

"You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means." Irving crossed his arms and leaned against a table with alarming corporeality.

How dare the man suggest he was beetle-headed. How many languages did the captain speak? How many texts had he translated? "I beg your pardon."

"You should be begging hers. Because you keep giving these big speeches about how you trust her and how you care about her. But when she needs you most, you spit in her face. You ignore her advice, you make her a third wheel in your precious _partnership. _And when you do those things, somebody pays a price." Blood pattered from the captain's side and pooled at his feet. "But somehow it's never you who pays."

Ichabod sat abruptly, his eyes fastened on the mortal wound. "We—_I—_never meant for you to die. I thought surely you would be saved. That Katrina's might could save you. And that it could not, I am so sorry."

"You don't need a witch." Her mother's voice sounded as though it emanated from the bottom of a well. And though her body stuttered in and out of being, her eyes remained constant and they remained fixed upon him. "You need to listen to the partner God gave you. That's not the one you're married to."

"You act as though I treat her like some shabby stepsister. I _trust _your daughter, Mrs. Mills. I listen to her voice and I heed her words. We do not always agree, of course, but together we reach a compromise. That is the basis of a great government, and of a great friendship." There was a desperate note in his voice he despised. Why did he care what these spirits thought? He and the lieutenant knew the truth of it. He would not be bullied by the dead.

"Like you listened to her about Henry?" Sheriff Corbin said.

"Like you listened to her about Katrina?" Mrs. Mills said.

"Like you listened to her about Abraham?" Captain Irving said.

"Enough!" Ichabod thumped his hand upon the table and sprang to his feet. "You may judge from your perches on high, but I am doing the best that I can for this world and for that woman. If that is not good enough for you, then address the matter directly with your Creator, who chose _me _for this task."

"Who do you think let us come down here in the first place?" Mrs. Mills' eyebrows raised in an eerie echo of her daughters'. Both of them.

The room became frigid. It could not be true. Not all of it. Not the way the lieutenant felt, not the way he had acted, not the fact that God Himself had ordained this visit.

Was he making such a muddle of things? Not just for the world—hang the world—but for _her_?

"This isn't in the bag, Crane," Captain Irving said. "Destiny isn't going to save the world. The two of you are. But only if you get it together." He evaporated like a puff of smoke on a windy day. His blood still stained the floor.

"She'll do it alone if has to. She's that good. But she shouldn't have to." Sheriff Corbin peered at Ichabod over the tops of his spectacles. "Step up. I know you've got this in you. Just be a man of action instead of a man of words and you're gonna be just fine." He gave a reassuring nod and then he too was gone.

Mrs. Mills lingered but Ichabod scarcely noticed. Time and again he had brushed her concerns aside. Sworn loyalty but not given it. Changed the plan the instant Katrina whispered into his ear.

He had failed her so.

"You're an idiot." The ghost stood before him, so close he had to swallow his yelp of fear as she gazed up at him with those scorching eyes. "But you can learn. You can mend your ways. And when you do—when she's truly forgiven you—you're going to have to take the first step. Because my girl, she can be an idiot too. She's not gonna know right away. So you be patient. And you help her. Do you understand?"

How did such tiny women manage to be so terrifying? He wished nothing more than to feed her the easy lie—yes, yes of course he understood—and send her winging back to whatever heaven she had descended from. But she demanded the truth, and he gave it. "No. I don't understand."

She smiled and touched his cheek with a hand that felt like butterfly's wings. "I know. But you will. If you can straighten up, you'll know."

He was alone.

He crumbled to the floor like a broken toy, the strength quite gone from his legs. For some time, he lay heaped there, trembling with self-loathing and regret. Her words played cruelly in his ears: _"Sometimes I think destiny's the only reason I stay. Sometimes I wonder how long that's going to be enough."_

At last he raised his head. _No_. It was not too late. He could mend the shattered edges of her trust. He could be better. He could be hers.

He fumbled for his phone. It rang. And rang. He despaired that she would ever answer, when—

"What."

He nearly sobbed at that flat word. "I need to see you. At once." No. No one had put him in charge, they said. "I would like to see you, if I may. Tonight. I shall come to you. Please?"

"You okay?" The apathetic affect was replaced by deep concern.

"This isn't about me, Abigail. Just wait. I will be there in a thrice."

"You could take a fource if you wanted," she said uncertainly.

He laughed, a wretched hiccupping sound of joy and sorrow. "No. I cannot wait a moment longer to make things right, Abigail."

* * *

><p><strong>readnwrite4u<strong>**asked: This is fun! I want to request a slightly AU fic but if you can make it fit into the current SH universe all the better. Crane and Abbie speed dating for whatever reason IDK I just want to see a perplex Crane and impress, slightly jealous Abbie by Crane courting abilities.**

"So the point of speed dating is to meet a bunch of people really fast and see who you click with. You get five minutes with each person, and you both get to decide if you want to see the other again. I know this is gonna seem weird to you—"

"On the contrary. In my day, we did rather the same thing, only with dancing. A few moments in someone's arms can teach you most of what you need to know about their character." He looked around the drably beige room with a sniff. "That was quite a lot more amusing than this, but the concept holds true."

"Well that was a lot easier than I thought it would be," she muttered. "Okay. So we split up. Be on the lookout for the weird eye flash thing. If you see it, you come and get me and we'll get them back to the armory. Don't try to get them to go yourself or they'll probably think you're a serial killer. Also crazy. Got it?"

"Yes, I do recall the details of the plan for saving the demon's victims. Thank you for the gentle reminder and the equally gentle warnings about my seeming sanity."

"You're welcome." She stopped in front of a mirror positioned just by the door to straighten her jacket and smooth her hair. Not that she ever looked unkempt—far from it!—but the sudden care with her appearance caught him off guard

"You aren't truly seeking a suitor here, are you?"

"Fucking hardly. But we gotta play the part, right?"

Could she not see that she outshined every woman in this room? That all the mussed hair in the world could not hide her ineffable beauty?

"See that you do not forget our mission tonight."

She rolled her eyes and they parted ways. The women remained stationary while the men moved in a circuit as the buzzing timer dictated.

Ichabod tried to be courteous to his partners. Truly he did. They were lovely young women only looking for a scrap of affection. But once he had gazed deeply into their eyes and found the absence of the yellow iridescence that marked the demon's touch, his attention wandered again and again to where the lieutenant sat.

She was quiet, mostly. She curved one arm across her breast and rubbed at her shoulder, nodding as her partner spoke. Her own answers were short and to the point, punctuated by brief flashes of a smile that flitted away as soon as it began to catch hold.

"So where are you from, Ichabod? With that name and that accent, it can't be from around here," his own suitor asked.

"England." The lieutenant laughed. Softly—he could not hear it—but he could tell from the light in her face that it was true, genuine amusement. God, how he worked to hear that laugh, how he would turn himself into a jester for her, just on the off-chance she might—

The clock struck. He rose and mumbled goodbyes to the young lady opposite him and moved on.

Miss Mills was still bidding farewell to her suitor. He shook her hand over and over again, reluctant to let go.

Ichabod took a step forward, ready to take the man to task for his indiscretion, but then the lieutenant pulled her hand free and sent him on his way, ever capable of handling herself without his aid.

The cycle repeated himself. Each lady proved—thankfully for her—to be free of demonic taint. And then Ichabod dismissed her from his mind, never to be thought of again. He was instead preoccupied with watching the lieutenant. More often than not, she seemed bored, arms folded across her chest, giving only short, polite responses. But there were other times when she leaned forward and gestured with her hands as she answered queries. When her eyes glowed as she listened to her partner's responses. Once she even reached out and touched the man's arm in the casual way she had only yet seen him touch—

Ichabod was on his feet before he knew it, leaving his own lady to break off her story about her dog midsentence.

"Miss Mills, we are wasting time here," he said.

The man turned to glare up at him. Ichabod took an instant dislike to the man, with his sun-browned skin and his strong jaw and his thick, dark hair fussed into the puffy styles popinjays today seemed to favor. "There a problem?"

"No problem. Marco, this is my friend Crane. The one I was telling you about. The one who's going to help you with your situation." Her eyes flicked up to Ichabod and even though they now had a man who was bound up in the deepest darkest magic imaginable, he felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Her interest had been a ploy. Of course she was far too clever and not nearly vain enough to be drawn in by his broad shoulders and deep voice. Of course.

Then they were quite busy in the unbinding ritual, a nasty thing which involved a purgative that made poor Marco run at both ends in a manner that was really rather unattractive when you thought about it. But the important thing was that he survived and the demon was banished and when he handed the lieutenant his phone number at the end of the night, she let the wind catch it as soon as he was out of her sight.

"You won't call upon him? He seemed pleasant enough, for the sort of fellow one might meet at _speed dating._"

"Not what I'm looking for right now. You know?" She watched the man's taillights disappear into the night. "Don't know what it is I'm looking for, but I'll know it when I see it."

"It could take longer than five minutes to ascertain this certain inexpressible quality you seek," he said.

She smiled up at him. "Thought you were all, 'speed dating's the new dancing.' Change your mind?"

"I always held that dancing was the better method." On a silly, arrogant whim, he extended his hand. "Permit me to show you."

Her eyebrows raised suspiciously, but she took his hand. At once he bowed low over it and pressed his lips to her soft, fragrant skin. Once, twice, and only barely managing to restrain himself a third time.

They had no music, but it did not seem to matter. His hand around her waist, her arm stretching nearly to its limit to reach his shoulder, they moved in an improvised step that bore no relation to the strict choreography he had once known. But it felt hauntingly familiar and just right for this moment, this place, this woman.

As they swayed, she kept her eyes fastened on a spot just over his left shoulder. But he could not look away from her. And when at last she met his gaze, there was a burst of something that was almost like recognition and—

Then she was pulling away, wiping her hands on her trousers. "You're right, dancing's pretty okay," she said. "But it's late. I should…" She looked at him again. Started to say something, but quickly lost her nerve. "Yeah. Goodnight, Ichabod."

"Goodnight, Abbie."

He walked home alone, heavy with the knowledge that he, too, was not what she was looking for right now.

* * *

><p><strong>birdlovesafish<strong>**asked: Ok non ICHABBIE prompt if you are still taking them: Macey Irving gets into witchcraft specifically resurrection type stuff after Team Witness basically tells she and her mother the truth about everything and that they are pretty much responsible for it, and she's pissed over it.**

Cemeteries are not wheelchair accessible. Sure, she could roll right along the tidy concrete paths, but what she needed wasn't on the paths. She needed grave dirt. Fresh.

Getting the rest of the spell components had been surprisingly easy. Even finding the spell itself in the first place—once Abbie and Ichabod told her about the armory, they let her wander around in there to "process." "Find some answers," Abbie had said. Of course, she hadn't been able to meet Macey's eyes when she said that.

She was a coward. They all were. But she took their pity and she made it useful.

A book on demons led to a book on souls. What happened to them after you died. What happened to them when they were given away.

Short answer? Nothing good.

That led to a book on soul magic, how to bind them, use them to create bigger spells. Macey didn't want that. But that led to a book on death magic. And that was what she wanted.

She thought death magic was the wrong name for it though. She wasn't looking to kill anybody. Just the opposite. All she wanted was for him to break another promise about when he was coming to visit. All she wanted was for him to tell her she couldn't go somewhere, that it was too dangerous, that she had to be careful. All she wanted was for him to call her "little bean" one last time.

That was _life _magic.

So she ignored the warnings in the books about the cost and the dangers and the burden of this magic. And she gathered her ingredients. And she grew stronger.

She started small. The cockroach that kicked it in her bathroom was easy. All it took were a few drops of blood and a few muttered words and then it was scampering off to do whatever cockroaches do. The squirrel she found on her way to school was harder. It had been dead longer, its eyeballs already eaten by ants. It took more blood, enough to make her feel lightheaded, but that was okay. It worked, even if only the one eyeball came back.

But she kept trying.

People expected her to act weird. She was grieving. She was mourning. Yes. Those were both true. But above all, she was _growing._

The only one who seemed to know or care that anything was up was Jenny. Abbie and Crane were too busy saving the world, which mostly seemed to involve fixing whatever stupid thing his stupid wife had done that day. But Jenny saw stuff they missed. She made it a point to take Macey for ice cream (like she was some _kid _who could be bought off with sweets) and ask her how things were going and talk about how brave her dad was and that it fucking sucked that he was dead and it was okay to miss him and by the way, did she know that Macey could tell her anything? Anything.

One time, Macey almost did. It was the hot chocolate's fault. With it steaming into her face and Jenny looking at her not with pity but with real empathy, like she'd been through some shit too and come out the other side and maybe, maybe she could help her. And maybe it might be a good idea to have some help in all this and—

But in the end, she didn't tell her. She just sipped her hot chocolate and said everything was fine. Yeah, it was hard, but she was feeling better every day.

Once he was back, then she'd stop. She wouldn't need the magic because she'd have him. And yeah, he wasn't going to be super happy about this, but he also wasn't super happy when she wore skirts cut above the knee. He'd deal with it. Or he could be mad about it. She didn't care. Let him yell. Just let him be here.

The ritual for raising a human—the "ensouled dead," the books called it—was way harder. There was a lot more chanting and it needed a lot more blood. A _lot._Macey got the impression she was supposed to kill somebody to get it, but her dad wouldn't want to come back that way. She knew that. So she started gathering it a few drops at a time, storing it in Tupperwares in the back of the freezer behind the peas where Mom never looked.

She gathered herbs with names like belladonna and wormwood. She clipped little bits of yew from the boxy shrubs in the park and bought hermetically sealed packets of rosemary and sage in the grocery store. A pomegranate, too.

The book was very clear on one thing: No life is without cost. To bring him back, she needed an "animating spark." And that only happened when another life was extinguished.

It never said the life had to be human. _It never said the life had to be human._So she bought a rabbit with red eyes and a soft nose and refused to name it. It was the best she could do. Maybe with the human blood—with her blood—it would be enough.

It had to be enough.

When the moon was dark, she took her blood and her sacrifice and her dirt and a shovel to his grave. They still hadn't put in the headstone yet, so there was just a little flag to mark his life. Someone—not her—had left a single chrysanthemum in an empty bottle of bourbon.

Macey scooted out of her wheelchair and sat on the cold ground. Getting back up was going to be hard, but she'd have him to help her.

She burned herbs and breathed in their bitter, oily smoke. She tore the pomegranate open and put three seeds to her lips but did not eat. She took the fresh grave dirt and that, she did eat, coughing and gagging. But she got it down.

She drew symbols with her blood on the earth. Triangles and circles and what she thought were words. And she felt the power stirring inside of her. Warm. It was always warm. But this time, it scorched instead of soothed.

Words poured out of her. Chants she'd practiced over and over. And as she spoke them, she saw her father. Playing volleyball with her as a kid. Swinging her up in his arms. The carefully hidden pain the day he left. The pain he couldn't hide the day of her accident. The way he held her after that day in the cabin. The slack blankness of his cold, dead face.

She would never see that face again. Never _imagine _it. He would be back and he would hold her again and tell her everything was going to be okay. He would be there when she graduated high school and college and when she walked down the aisle and he would be everywhere and everything a father was supposed to be.

There were only two things left in her bag. A shivering rabbit with soft, soft fur and terrified eyes. And a knife.

She chanted faster so she wouldn't have to think. Her hand wrapped around its downy body and the tip of the knife rested against its throat. Faster. Faster. Just go. It's just a rabbit. It's just a death. It's for him and it's worth it and—

"Macey!"

She didn't stop chanting. There was nothing Jenny could say to change her mind.

"Macey, you can't do this. Your dad, when he went—look, bringing him back isn't like bringing back other people. His soul—" Jenny panted to a stop beside her. "We don't know how he'd come back. Whether he'd be him or something that looks like him but isn't. You don't want that. You don't want him like that."

Macey stopped chanting. She looked up at Jenny. "Yes. I do," she said.

She slit the rabbit's throat and let its blood dribble into the earth, into her father's coffin.

The ground shook. A moan arose.

Macey was afraid. But she was ready.


	3. Part Three

**Anonymous asked: I'm actually dying to read a stuck-in-an- elevator-for-a-long-period-of-time Ichabbie fic. Smut would be great but only if it feels right.**

There was no room for both of them to sit. They leaned against their respective walls. Abbie imagined her two square feet as a bubble. Her space. Only hers. Nevermind that they kept breathing the same stale air all over each other, kept sucking in the other's exhalations. As long as she had her impenetrable personal bubble, she could pretend everything was okay.

Could pretend she wasn't going to murder him.

"I knew it was folly to use this _elevator_. It was a mere fourteen floors, we easily could have scaled that height." He disdainfully tapped a boot against the wall; it gave a metallic thud. Her bubble contracted until its invisible surface stuck tight against her skin. She tried to breathe slow and deep, but somehow the breaths just kept coming faster and faster. And still Crane would not _shut up._"I blame myself. Really I do. I never should have entrusted our fortunes to a device modeled after one of Jefferson's worthless inventions. Brilliant man, to be sure, but absolute rubbish when it came to—"

"_Be quiet."_The words cracked like a rifle. Crane blinked down at her, all hurt puppy eyes. And rather than deal with that, rather than try to explain what was happening (as if she even knew), she just crouched on the floor, knees tight to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor.

She knew someone was coming for them. _Knew_it. They'd talked to a nice lady on the intercom who assured them help was on the way, but it might be a while, being so soon after Christmas and a Sunday and all. But just sit tight, she said. We're gonna getcha out real soon.

But part of her—a stupid, irrational part—couldn't help but wonder what would happen if they didn't. If they'd just hang here forever, suspended between the seventh and eighth floors in a half-abandoned apartment building.

Sometimes help never comes. Sometimes people slip through the cracks. It happens.

For a few minutes, there was quiet. Abbie couldn't decide if that was better or worse. There was just the sound of her breathing, raspy and still too fast. And the steady rush of Crane's breathing and in the background, the creaking of the cable as they dangled.

She fixed her eyes on his boots. They were the ones he'd woken up in, the ones that had seen war and death and probably been stepped on by lots of horses. Deep gouges marred the leather, but they were perfectly polished and so clean she could eat off them. Looking at the boots helped, she guessed. They might not be pretty and perfect, but they'd been through some shit and they were still—

The boots moved. Crane crouched beside her. Their knees touched. It was all Abbie could do not to pop right back to her feet and scramble back into her bubble. But she didn't. She stayed.

"All right there, Lieutenant?"

She twisted her head up to look at him. "How are _you _all right? We're basically in a metal coffin suspended in midair. How can you be so whatever about this?"

He rocked back on his heels. "I suppose I hadn't thought about it in such colorful terms." She snorted. "I trust that we will be well. We have the word of the dispatcher and I have no reason to doubt her."

"Must be nice, just being able to trust what people tell you."

His mouth twitched to the side. "Besides all that, though, I have you. And experience has long taught me that if you are by my side, I have nothing at all to fear."

This was a pretty standard-issue Crane declaration of affection. He did it about four times a day, and most of the time she just tuned it out. You say that kind of stuff often enough and it becomes wallpaper. But something about this time was different. Maybe it was her heart thrumming in her chest. Maybe it was the fact that their faces were about six inches apart. Or maybe it was that this time, she really listened to what he said.

"Would you…" She bit off the next word. She couldn't ask for what she really needed. And he wouldn't—couldn't—give it anyway.

But somehow he knew. He shifted in the cramped space until his back was against the wall and his legs formed a narrow V. And then firmly enough that she knew she was safe but gently enough that she could pull away, he guided her into his lap.

This shouldn't make her feel better. It made no sense that being _literally on top of him_made it easier for her to breathe. But as she leaned against his chest, it did.

Even now, his hands never stayed still. They fidgeted through her hair or tapped along her shoulders or tugged at the hem of her shirt. But it was so _Crane_that she couldn't even be annoyed. She leaned further against him, letting him take on more and more of her weight until she felt boneless and floaty. "How do you always know?" she murmured.

His hands stopped. One on either side of her waist. "It is as though your every glance is branded into my own heart. I daresay I know you better than I know my own self."

His breath rustled against her ear and this time, she didn't mind the idea that they were breathing each other in over and over again.

In one completely ungraceful gesture, she swiveled around until they were face to face, legs all tangled together in a heap. "I'm damn sure I know you better than I know me." And yet as much of a mystery as Abbie was even to herself, there was no doubt about what she wanted to do next.

Their lips were a heartbeat apart when the elevator groaned to life.

They skittered apart and hobbled to their feet, adjusting clothes and hair that didn't need adjusting. Seconds later, the doors slid open on the ground floor.

"Sorry it took so long," the repairman said. "Hope it wasn't too bad up there."

"We-we managed quite well. Thank you for your attention, good sir."

"Sure. Happy New Year."

When Crane looked 'round, the lieutenant was already gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: Yey! Another one :) - Ichabod and Abbie have an argument over something really stupid(I dunno), and because it's hard to determine who is winning the argument they decide to play a video game and the loser means the person lost the argument.(You can decide what game it is and who loses the game :) And then probably some cute fluff the winner does to make the loser feel better)<strong>

"A _banana peel_? Lieutenant, I strongly doubt a simple fruit scrap would cause a car—even one so small— to spin wildly out of control."

"God's teeth, who would construct such a dastardly road? It makes my very eyes hurt, and the long stretches without railing are most dangerous."

"Why did you hit me with that shell? This is most unsportsmanlike conduct. I expected better of you than an automotive-based fragging."

After he lost for the third time, he threw his controller down with a pout. "I don't like this game."

"Aw, Crane." She patted his head like she would a sulky child. He cringed away. "Don't feel bad. Lots of people have trouble with Rainbow Road. Not your fault you're playing against a master. But you do still have to pay up."

She swung her bare feet into his lap and wiggled her toes. And then with the same intensity and devotion he'd paid to the video game, he rubbed her feet while she melted against the couch.

* * *

><p><strong>crankybitchcrane<strong>**asked: I figured out my prompt that isn't just smut! How about where Crane experiences some kind of Purgatory dream where he's sent back to 1781 and is living with Katrina and Jeremy like a happy, normal family. But something triggers a memory of Abbie and the 21st century, making him realize none of it's real.**

It took him three weeks to walk from Yorktown to Sleepy Hollow. Had he a mount, he could have made it in half the time, but horseflesh was in short supply. General Washington had promised him a horse and an escort if only he would wait until the last details of the British surrender were put to rights. But Ichabod could not wait.

He had to see his son.

These last months, he had lived for Katrina's letters. Even amid the joy of American victory—American _independence—_his truest bliss came as he read of the boy's thick thatch of hair, of his powerful lungs that kept Katrina awake with his bellowings, of the sweet way he clutched the doll his mother made him.

And when he stepped across the threshold of their humble home and the boy was placed into his arms for the first time, he wept as he had not since his own father had stripped the title of son from him. His tears rained onto the child until Jeremy began to scream and Katrina began to laugh and then he was laughing too and oh, they were together and they were whole. And they were so wonderfully, wonderfully happy.

Each day was its own perfect dream. He was respected as a very father of freedom, in constant contact by letter with Washington and Adams and Jefferson and Jay as they set about shaping this new nation of theirs. But far more importantly, he was the father to a son with rosy cheeks and reddish hair. And at long last, he was husband to his beloved.

But despite his delirium of happiness, something always buzzed and hummed at the edges of his hearing. Something important he could not quite understand. There were times when he looked at something—something simple, like the river or a livery stable—and it seemed to flicker in his sight. The river came alive with boats massive beyond all imaginings, boats that seemed to be made of iron and steel instead of wood and linen. For the briefest blink, the stable boasted a round green sigil of a bare-breasted woman. But then the swinging sign with its horse and rider appeared once more. Ichabod shrugged and continued on his way.

Katrina was as attentive a wife as any man could hope. But there were times when she held him close and he had to fight not to shrink away in revulsion. Mary Wells' face loomed before him in those moments, and he did not understand. But they passed quickly enough and he buried his face against her bosom once more. He was happy. He was _happy._

But as the days blurred past, a chasm opened in the life he'd always wanted. It was an easy life. An unchallenged life. No one questioned him. No one teased him or pushed him or called him…

Crane? But why would he wish them to? Mr. Crane or sir or Ichabod served well. Why did his unadorned surname pound in his ears?

But he was _happy. _So desperately happy. His son grew and learned to smile and laugh and explore the world around him. And Ichabod dandled the boy upon his knee and whispered to him all the things he would one day be—tall and strong and kind and good. He would not take the wayward turns his father had. He would walk a straight path of benevolence and freedom. And he would be happy. He would never sit beneath glittering and unfeeling stars and wonder why a hole still gaped in his heart. He would never sit down to write a letter and find a strange woman's name springing from his pen over and over again like a blessing or a curse—_Abbie, Abbie, Abbie._

He knew no one by that name.

One sun-dappled June day, the happy Crane family walked in the lane near their perfect home. Little Jeremy was just beginning to toddle, so they walked with halting steps as he found the rhythm of his body, his father clutching his hand. Ichabod reached for Katrina's hand to complete the chain. And as her hand clasped around his, he remembered another hand. Smaller. Stronger.

Abbie.

And with that touch, he remembered all. Remembered her joyful laugh and her sorrowful eyes. Remembered her tremendous bravery and her tremulous fear. Remembered his duty and his charge.

Remembered that with her, he understood the true meaning of _happy_.

But just as swiftly, he remembered the roast Katrina had prepared to welcome him home. The cider she had plied him with. The great farm breakfasts every morning and the glasses of thick beer every night.

He remembered the words of his son and his enemy. _You must not eat or drink, _the old man had told him.

He stared at the family beside him, and they smiled stranger's smiles.

"Aren't you happy, darling?" The Katrina-thing asked.

He tore away from them; he heard Jeremy wail as he fell to the dust. "Abbie!" he called to the skies. "I am here! I remember! Oh God, Abbie!"

But she did not answer.

Not that day.

Nor in all the days that followed after.

* * *

><p><strong>nickey79<strong>**asked: Ichabod skinny dipping in the lake and abbie just so happens to stop by the cabin interesting thing happen**

The pile of clothes should have been her clue. She could have avoided the whole thing if she'd just stopped and thought about things for a second. But she saw the neatly folded shirt and pants lying on the shore and shrugged. Sometimes he hung his laundry out on the line; he must have gotten distracted while folding.

Abbie plunked down on the grassy rise beside the lake and tugged her shoes off. This was an indulgence she didn't have time for. But the sun was so warm and she was off work and evil was quietish for once. And when she'd seen that Crane wasn't in his cabin, she hadn't been able to resist stealing a few minutes of peace in the sunshine.

But just as her toes touched the bath-like water, he rose up out of it like some kind of gangly Loch Ness Monster.

"Holy fuck," she yelped. Definitely out of surprise. Yup. One hundred percent shock-induced. Not because of the way droplets of water stuttered down his chest, jittering across gently defined pecs and abs. Not because of the way he slicked his hair back with one hand, still blinded as he returned to the world of air and sun. And definitely not because of the glimpses of jutting hip bones that she _definitely _shouldn't be able to see if he were wearing anything at all below the waist.

"Lieutenant?" He swiped a hand across his face and fastened her with his curious gaze. "What a pleasant surprise. I hadn't expected you today."

"Mhmm." She folded her arms tight across her chest. Thank Jesus he was standing in just enough water to cover his bits and tackle. The rest of it was fine. Totally fine. She'd seen him shirtless before, right? Not a big deal.

His pleased smile dripped away. "Something's the matter. What is it?" He started forward and she threw her hands up.

"Whoa whoa whoa. Let's just hold it right there."

She expected him to glance down and turn red around the ears when he remembered he was naked. You know, the way he did when she played "Anaconda" in the car. But this time he just stopped and cocked (_fuck_) his head to the side. "My apologies if my state of undress has made you uncomfortable, Miss Mills. As I said, I hadn't expected company."

"Not uncomfortable. I'm good." Why was he being so not weird about this? Crane was weird about putting the toilet seat down for God's sake. But skinny dipping was apparently normal in ye olden dayes.

"I see." Silence stretched. Water clung to his little patch of chest hair and caught the light. Abbie definitely didn't look at that. "So nothing's the matter, then?"

"What? Oh. No. I was just bringing you those books you asked for and I thought I'd come sit by the water for a few. It's so hot, and…" Jesus, what was she doing? "Didn't mean to interrupt, is all. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Lieutenant, please." He called to her retreating back. "If you'll only give me a moment, I'll be dressed and gone. I would so hate to intrude upon a rare respite for you."

"Not a big deal. Don't worry about it." She trudged up the knoll. Maybe she'd go sit by the pool at her apartment for a few minutes. No, she wouldn't do that. Maybe she'd find a quiet corner and let her hand slide between her legs and—

"Or—or you could join me?" It was a question more than an invitation, uncertain and so softly spoken she almost missed it. But it was enough to stop her in her tracks.

She didn't turn around. "What?"

"Nothing. Only foolish prattle. Again, my apologies."

Nothing. Yeah. Sure. They'd been tapdancing around _nothing _for months now. Every time one of them took a step forward, the other took two giant steps back. Maybe that was just how it was for Witnesses. Maybe it was how it was supposed to be.

Fuck that. It was time for two steps forward.

Her shirt hit the grass first. Crane drew in a breath. Then her pants her hands flirted with the brand of her bra, but in the end, she left it on. Panties too. Maybe she was pussing out, but she wasn't ready to walk toward him full frontal. She wasn't sure he was, either.

_Just like wearing a bikini, _she thought as she turned toward him. _He's seen me in this before. _But he hadn't looked at her like this before. Not like she was a woman instead of just a partner.

The water was warm against her legs; the sun was hot against her shoulders. But none of that compared to the scorching flames licking against the side of her face, coiling in her belly. And even though she was half-naked (and he was whole naked), his eyes never left hers.

"Hello," he said softly.

"Hi." She shouldn't. She really shouldn't. But she did. She stroked a hand down his neck, across his chest, stopping just at his skin was surprisingly soft. His heartbeat was unsurprisingly fast. She pulled away and dived into the silky water.

They found each other in the murky green depths. His cheeks were puffed with air; his hair floated around his head like a gorgon.

And that's when she kissed him.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: Prompt here! Ichabod sees a piano(somewhere) and starts to play(he learnt how to from youtube :D) He persuades Abbie to join him although she onyl knows how to play a few keys but in the end, they make beautiful music. P.S: Abbie records it on her phone and makes a witty joke of them being on their way to making their first album :D fluff!<strong>

"Lieutenant, look."

The lieutenant did not want to look. She wanted to get out of John Paulding Elementary School. Her elementary school. One that brought back too many memories of hungry days and an unpredictable mother who warned teachers about a beast with seven heads. But a case was a case, and Abbie wasn't about to ignore stories about monsters only kids could see. But now that they had the info, it was time to move on.

But Crane had other ideas. He made a beeline for the upright piano pushed into the corner of the cafeteria/gym/auditorium and made himself right at home on the bench. "What are you doing?"

"But this is beautiful," he crooned, stroking a hand across the top of the instrument, then sliding down the long scale of black and white keys. He jumped as the slightly out-of-tune notes sprang into the air. "Loud!"

Abbie's instinct was to grunt and order him to get moving. But instead, she drifted over to him. "You had pianos, didn't you?"

"We did. Well, after a fashion. A bit smaller, certainly considerably softer in volume, but the same idea." His fingers dribbled across the keys. "Mary—Mary Wells, that is—was wonderfully accomplished. She loved nothing more to play, and I loved nothing more than to listen."

He struck a chord—something in a minor key—and stared down at the keys. She knew he wasn't seeing his own hands there. He was seeing Mary's.

"You never played?" Subject changes were good right about now. Right about that time he got that look in his eyes. "You have the hands for it."

His lips curved into a smile. "Oh no. Not me. Not a gentleman. Father would have gone into paroxysms of class outrage." But as he spoke, he began tapping out a tune. And a familiar one.

"Yet somehow you learned how to play 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star'?"

"Pardon?"

"This song." She nodded at his hands, then jumped into the familiar tune, singing soft and low. "How I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are."

He kept his eyes trained on his hands, ferociously concentrating on each note, but his smile grew wider as she sang. "Marvelous. But I knew it differently." He began the tune again and began to sing in French. She didn't understand the words—save the odd Latin cognate—but his voice was surprisingly good, clear and strong and on pitch. The French words hung warm and silky in the air.

The song should have ended, but he repeated the last two stanzas again, this time translating into English: "My heart says ev'ry minute/Can you live without a lover?"

Abbie looked away.

Crane cleared his throat. "I know it because of Mozart, of course. He took a simple French country air and transformed it into twelve magnificent variations. I heard it just before I died, at a fete thrown for General Washington." He said that weird-ass statement with incredible nonchalance. "Truly, he was a God among men."

"So how'd you learn to play it if Daddy said no?" She winced once the words were out. It was cruel, a verbal shove to keep him from getting to close, to keep the moment from meaning anything.

"I see, I remember." He raised one hand from the keyboard long enough to tap his temple. "Alas, my hands lack the experience to play the finer flourishes of his composition." Crane went for a complicated run, but his fingers got tangled and it turned into a muddy mess of sound. He shrugged and returned to playing the simple tune. "But I can do this."

She watched his hands. She hadn't been lying when she'd said he had a pianist's hands. Even playing two and three notes at a time, he looked elegant and poised, like he'd been doing it all his life. He played the song again and again and she found herself drawn into the plinking, drawn into the rhythm of those fingers like the piper's song all over again.

"Will you sing with me once more?"

She jumped. "You want me to sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle'?"

He nodded, eyes bright.

"Yeah. But go down a key. Here." She put her hands over his and tugged him down the keyboard. She couldn't play, but high school choir (Corbin insisted on it her last two years) had taught her a little something. "It'll sound better."

He began the song again in the new key. And she sang. It felt stupid, singing a kid's song like this. Caring what she sounded like. Caring what he thought. But just going a little lower let her lean into it, find some kind of musicality in the halting tune.

When the song was over, she was surprised to find that she'd closed her eyes. And when she opened them, Crane was watching her with rapt attention, his lips parted gently. "That was—"

"Fun, yeah." She smiled and pulled the keyboard cover down. "Let's get going. No time for kid's stuff."

* * *

><p><strong>femmelillies<strong>**asked: I'm sorry I tried to come up with a not smutty Ichabbie plot but I am weak An Abbie seduces Ichabod prompt please?. But not, like a lingerie sort of thing, more like she decides on her volition that she wants to Ichabod and has teasing touches and naughty innuendos and Ichabod isn't sure if he's losing his mind or she's purposefully fucking with him. Like, Abbie getting off on driving his sensibilities up the wall. Established relationship not necessary**

His relationship with the lieutenant always had a physical component which could not be denied or ignored. From his first day in the twenty-first century, she had towed him along by his shoulder whilst he was bound in shackles. From there it had evolved—a steadying presence when she led him toward Roanoke's cure, a ferocious embrace when his sin was devoured, a clutch of her hand to console him, inspire him, comfort him.

While such casual and intimate contact with a lady was rather new to him, it had never seemed strange. They had always dispensed with the preliminaries, he and the lieutenant. Though their association had not been a long one, it had never seemed odd when she thumped his chest to gain his attention, or when he offered himself as a human step stool and they came cheek to cheek, as it were.

Until.

Until they sat in the cool shade, watching the sunlight ripple across the mighty Hudson. Until he gulped deeply of the sweet, frothy _cappuccino._Until she laughingly reached out and wiped the warm foam from his lip.

It was not the touch of her hand—carefully insulated with her napkin—that undid him. It was the look in her eyes that went beyond warmth and strayed into heat. And from that moment on, every touch and every look loomed larger and larger in his mind.

At first, he could not tell which one of them had changed. Had she always walked so very near to him so her shoulder brushed against him? Was she always so quick to lean across him to snag the last _French fry_so that the perfectly formed swell of her breast just grazed his arm?

Surely it was ever so, he decided. If anything, there was more distance between them now, with Henry's rocky betrayal and Katrina's nebulous presence in their army. There was no logical reason Miss Mills would alter her behavior now. She had always grabbed his thigh when he took turns a trifle too quickly; she had always held his gaze while she delicately nibbled at the sweet bananas she ate to break her fast.

Those status quo touches invaded his dreams. Phantom hands—small like hers, calloused like hers—touched and caressed places the lieutenant never had. They stroked across his brow and traced the shell of his ear. They danced across his collar bones and made his belly jump under their ticklish ministrations. But just when they neared the painful throb between his legs, he invariably awoke.

Sometimes alone.

Sometimes not.

Always aching for one who was not there.

The days marched on, and so did his unending catalogue of contact. The warmth of her body against his back as she corrected his shooting stance. The taste of her lips when she offered him a draught of her hot chocolate from her own mug. The coolness of her hand as she gauged the extent of his fever. He bore each one in pained yet cherished silence.

Until.

They were alone at her apartment after a long day's hunt. He slumped onto the couch, his head thrown back against the cushions, eyes closed. Katrina was alone at the cabin, quietly convalescing from her recent illness. Their task seemed impossible. And oh, he was weary to his bones.

A weight settled onto his lap.

He opened his eyes.

The lieutenant lay carelessly sprawled across the couch. And her head lay just against his thigh. A forearm was thrown across her eyes. "This was not a good day," she groaned.

The weight of her was so splendidly warm and reassuring.

It was so perilously close to his cock.

"Lieutenant."

"Don't. Don't lecture me and try to tell me why today was a good day. It fucking sucked and no ra-ra go team speech is gonna fix that."

"Lieutenant," he repeated.

She dropped her arm and blinked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. As if she hadn't the slightest idea the effect she had upon him. "Yeah?"

"What is it that you're doing, precisely?"

Confusion clouded her face. Then she sat up abruptly. "Sorry. I didn't think. With the way you've been acting, I didn't think…" She gave a tight-lipped smile. "Didn't think. That's all. Won't happen again."

"The way _I've _been acting? You're the one who's been—not to cast aspersions against you, Miss Mills, not in the slightest—but you're the one who's been positively coquettish these last weeks."

She vaulted up from the couch. "Fuck you. _Fuck you. _I've been taking every cue from you, Crane." She jabbed a finger toward him. "You're the one who's married, not goddamn me. Everything I've done to you, you've done to me first."

Impossible. As she said, he was married. And he was not the sort of man who took that lightly, who fell into dalliances with maids and camp followers and the like. Even when it had been lonely and torturous, he had been faithful in every way.

Until.

_Everything I've done to you, you've done to me first._

The truth of her words rushed back to him on a swell of his cursed eidetic memory. His body enveloping hers as he molded her limbs into the perfect fencing pose. His fingers caressing her cheeks as he woke her from the Piper's trance. A quick squeeze of her thigh before they exited the car to face the gorgon.

His head cradled in her lap as he burned with fever.

"I think you need to leave," she said, each word clipped and precise.

"Allow me to—" he began.

She held up a single finger, an eerie echo of his own habitual gesture. He fell to silence. "I don't want to talk to you right now. I don't want to _look_at you right now. You go. And you figure out if you really are married and what the hell that means. And when you know that, you tell me. And I will live with that. But I can't do this in between. And I sure as shit won't let you call me _coquettish _because I dared to lean on you like you lean on me."

Lexicons of words rushed through his mind. But the only word that escaped was the only word that truly mattered. "Abbie?"

She held the door open. And just as wordlessly, he left.

When at last he fell into miserable sleep, her phantom touch found the apex of his desire for the first time.

He awoke with Katrina's hand about his cock and Abbie's name on his lips.

* * *

><p><strong>readnwrite4u<strong>**asked: Jenny takes Crane lingerie shopping for Valentine gift for Abbie. Crane x Abbie in an establish relationship.**

"I'm not certain this is entirely seemly."

"Which part of it?" Jenny considered a neon green thong, then let it drop back onto the pile. It'd probably scare him.

"All parts of it. You and I shopping for such delicate items though we are not_involved._" He spoke the modern word like it was ancient Greek. Scratch that, she'd heard him speak Greek; he spoke that a lot more naturally. "And you assisting in items which will be used in your sister's…" He groped for words. Jenny let him, her grin growing wider as his cheeks flushed darker. "…wooing."

"Oh, you're wooing her with panties now? I figured by the stage you got to see these, she was pretty thoroughly wooed." She held up a teddy with both tits cut out. "What is even the point of this? Leave something to the imagination. Yeesh."

"Perhaps asking you on this excursion was a mistake," he demurred. "Or perhaps the purchase of underthings is a selfish gift. After all, I am the one who benefits from their pleasing aesthetics, not her."

"Oh please. Believe it or not, not everything a woman wears is for your aesthetic benefit. The right slinky underthings will make a woman feel like a goddess. The more confident she feels, the more fun things are for everyone. Easy."

"She looks a goddess in her ancient sweatshirt and jeans. Or in nothing at all," he said fervently.

"Okay, then she'll look like a really hot goddess. Let's not quibble." Jenny dug through the piles of lingerie, which ranged from forgettable to hideous to—_perfect_. "Found it. Absolutely found it. Stick a bow on this and you're set."

Crane fingered the silken cups of the white negligee. The filmy skirt would let hints of dark skin peek through the filmy haze. Crane wouldn't realize it just now, but it had just enough lift to put the girls in the right spot but not enough to be uncomfortable. Add in a barely there string thong beneath it in that same snowy white and yup. Goddess material right there.

"I do believe you're right, Miss Jenny." He fastened bright eyes upon her. "Do forgive me, but I never expected you to be quite so versed in the sartorial arts."

She patted the top of his head. "You've got a lot to learn about women, Crane. And about me."

* * *

><p><strong>deweydell25<strong>**asked: Hello Creepingmuse, I would love to see Ichabod or Abbie find a puppy or kitten one night that they both become very attached to. I will leave all the other details to you. I always adore your stories. Bright Blessings, Dewey **

"Lieutenant, come quickly!"

Abbie pelted toward him, her flashlight crossed tight over her pistol. The light bounced off the raindrops and made darkling rainbows in the night. "Did you find it?"

"The kappa? No. But _look_." Cupped in his giant hands was a drenched wad of black fur. Every now and then the thing meowed pitifully, showing off a rosebud tongue.

"Okay?" A kitten was not a water demon. She did not have time for this.

"Look at it, Miss Mills. How small it is. How cold."

It was true, the thing was runty even by runt standards. And it trembled in Crane's hands even as it tried to escape. "Look, its mom is probably around here somewhere—" Crane's I'm So Disappointed in Your Lieutenant I Expect Much More Look cut her off. She sighed. "Look, just put it in your damn pocket or something and we'll drop it at the Humane Society later, okay?"

Crane started to argue with her, but that was right around the time the kappa grabbed her ankle.

Somehow, the two Witnesses and the kitten survived.

Something tickled Abbie's nose. She froze beneath the sheets and tried frantically to remember if she'd ever encountered a _fuzzy_demon. She drew a blank and finally cracked one eye open.

The kitten's butt was in her face. Its stumpy tail rested against her upper lip like a bad moustache. "Crane!"

Running feet. Crane's head popped into the doorway. "What is it?"

"Why is there a _cat_in our bed when we agreed it was going to sleep in its nice box with its nice towel out in the great room?"

It had been too late to take the cat to the shelter after the Great Kappa Caper. But the thing almost certainly had fleas and besides, pets don't belong in beds. They had been very clear on this point. But here was the cat, kneading on her right tit with fishhook claws.

Crane had the good grace to look guilty. "She must have slipped into the room when I slipped out. She couldn't resist crawling into bed with you any more than I can." He came to claim the little kitten. It looked preposterously small in his hands. "That was a very naughty thing you did, Daphne."

Abbie pushed herself up on her elbows. "_Daphne?_"

He sniffed and cradled it against his chest. "Daphne was a naiad. A water nymph who was transformed into a tree. We found this creature soaked to the bone and huddled beneath a shrubbery. It seemed a fitting appellation."

"Why did you have to name it?" She flopped back down and stared up at the timbered ceiling. "We are not keeping this cat. We do not have time for pets. We barely have time toeat most days. It is going to the shelter."

"Of course she is," he soothed. "But I was just hunting the address of the _Humane Society,_and tragically it is closed until the morrow. So she will have to stay with us a bit longer, and it seemed most undignified to keep calling her 'cat.' Or worse yet, 'kitty.'"

"Tomorrow. First thing," Abbie said.

"You have my word." The cat clawed its way up his shoulder and perched there like a parrot, watching her with accusing green eyes.

Abbie groaned and pulled the pillow over her head.

Abbie went to make a sandwich. Daphne followed her and glowered with those murder lamps. "Stop looking at me." Abbie threw down a scrap of ham. The cat rubbed against her legs and purred.

Crane jabbed at the text with his index finger. "And _furthermore, _lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit," he read. "Sed do eiusmod—" He stopped with a sputtering laugh as Daphne jumped up onto his book, turned 'round once, then flopped down on her side.

"Guess she's as tired of hearing you read Latin as I am." Abbie scratched the cat behind its downy little ears.

At the end of a long day of research, Abbie was glad to stumble to bed. She started to shut the door behind her, but the glowing eyes in the darkness stopped her. She looked at Daphne. Then at the bed.

Crane was startled when Abbie dumped the kitten on the comforter. "I thought cats were not permitted in the—"

"Shut up."

Daphne curled up on top of her head. Her breath whistled against Abbie's ear all night long.

"Shall we drop off Miss Daphne before your muster at the sheriff's department?" Crane asked as he handed her a travel cup of coffee. The cat in question was engaged in a ferocious battle for her tail.

"Too busy today. We'll do it another time."

Crane's face broke out into a beaming smile.

"Don't," she threatened.

"I shan't." He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head. She grumbled. Daphne yowled in victory as she caught her own tail between her own teeth.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: Another prompt! Jenny hosts a christmas dinner. Frank is alive and Macey is around. Abbie wears a lovely red dress that has Ichabod mind blown. Yeah also Jenny and Abbie do a duet singing one of their Mum's favorite christmas songs that has everyone teary eyed. Basically Ichabbie fluff and a holiday fic with the original gang. Also no HawleyKatrina. Thank you :)**

Growing up, Christmas was tough. When they were little, Abbie remembered good times. Never anything extravagant, but content little Christmases with strings of popcorn and hours of songs and dolls with button eyes and felt afro puffs.

Then came the later years. One Christmas they spent huddled in the bathroom while Mama recited Psalm 23 for hours. Another year their only gifts were butter knives. One for each of them. After that, the bland quietness of foster home Christmases was a relief.

But now Abbie had a family again. And families spent Christmases together. Dammit.

Showing up on Jenny's doorstep, Abbie wasn't sure what to expect. Yeah, they were all a family, but they each brought with them particular traditions and a truckload of baggage. What was this even gonna be?

It was messy. It was awkward, a little. And it was absolutely perfect.

Frank cooked. Country ham and a big bowl of greens with shredded little bits of ham hock running through and butter-rich mashed potatoes he insisted on topping with homemade noodles, cooked in broth until they were thick as gravy. Macey made the cranberry Jell-O mold and an obscene number of sugar cookies. Crane couldn't get enough of 'em.

Jenny made sure no one's drink ever ran dry. Sparkling cider for Macey and eggnog for the rest of them, heavy on the cinnamon and even heavier on the rum. When Frank was busy carving the ham, Jenny slipped Macey a little cup of eggnog, too.

Once the last star-shaped cookie was just crumbs, Abbie and Crane cleaned up the kitchen, huddling over Jenny's little sink. "You were kinda quiet during dinner," Abbie said.

"Was I?" His eyes were downcast into the water; his cheeks were pink from the steaming water. Also the rum.

"It's okay. Holidays are hard on a lot of people."

He carefully handed her the carving knife for drying. "This is lovely. More than I had ever hoped for. But I miss…" He gave a breath of laughter. "Everyone."

Maybe she should have comforted him. Made up some lie about how they were here in spirit or watching or whatever. But she didn't. She just put her damp hand on his arm until he looked at her. "I know." She nodded. "I know."

He swallowed hard. He returned her nod. And they both returned to their wash.

"Might we…might we play at charades?" He said it with the soft "a": _cha-rods. _"That was what we…every Christmas Day, we…"

"Yeah. I think we can swing that."

So they played out scene after scene, steering away from books and movies so Crane could play. They mimed the twelve days of Christmas and the three wise men and soaring eagles and Macey even pulled off abstract concepts like "liberty" and "hope," earning Crane's everlasting respect. His eyes shined like stars as they played.

Once they'd run out of good clues, Jenny flipped on a Pandora Christmas station, just for background noise. They milled around and admired the tree and wondered what came next. Was it time to leave? It was so early. The idea of a long Christmas evening alone wasn't quite what Abbie had in mind.

Abbie and Jenny locked eyes as the first haunting notes rose up. "O come, O come Emmanuel," Abbie sang first, so soft only Jenny could hear. "And ransom captive Israel."

Jenny shook her head. _No_. Mama loved this song. She cried every time she sang it, whether she was standing tall and proud in a church pew or babbling it to herself in a dark corner at Tarrytown. Abbie never could figure out why it meant so much to her. But now, she thought she just might. "That mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appear."

"Rejoice," Jenny whispered.

"Rejoice," Abbie sang in the plaintive minor key.

Everyone else had stopped talking.

"Emmanuel," they sang together. "Shall come to thee, O Israel."

They sang together, Abbie's voice clear and strong, Jenny's off key and hesitant. They sang through the rod of Jesse, they dispersed the gloomy clouds of night, begged King David to make safe the way that leads on high. And they remembered.

When the last notes trickled out, Frank and Crane had tears spangling their eyes. They might not know, but they understood. Jenny was staring at the floor like she was gonna burn a hole in it.

Macey coughed. "That was pretty, but kind of a downer for a Christmas song. Can you turn it to the pop station?"

Jenny coughed up a laugh and flipped it over. The three women joined together for "All I Want for Christmas Is You,"; Crane surprised them with a surprisingly sweet baritone rendition of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" (in Latin, of course); Frank's version of "Little Drummer Boy" easily rivaled David Bowie's version.

So they passed the evening hours in song. But most importantly, they passed them in laughter. And they passed them together.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: Hey lovely! Thanks for the fics! Could you write a fic where Abbie takes Jenny on a 'date' to some restaurant, and they just have a good sister bonding time. Would also love if you explore their opinions. Have them talk about their Mum, Ichabod, Hawley, Katrina and Irving's death. Their hopes and regrets. Things they wish had been different, and thing's they're glad are still the same. Thank you 3 :)<strong>

By the time they walked to the picnic tables on the bluff looking over the Hudson, the grease had soaked through the bag. You could practically see the tortilla chips huddling together inside the nearly transparent brown paper.

The sisters sat on top of the table, their feet resting on the benches. Abbie unpacked the chips and the guac and the neatly wrapped tacos. "What did you have again?"

"Two tongue and a tripe." Jenny nosed through the bundles. "Steak? Chicken? Jesus you're boring."

"I'm weirdly okay with that." They got the taco situation sorted out. Abbie nearly burned her fingers on the chips, still damp from the oil and so salty her taste buds puckered. They crunched and ate, watching the river slide along like it had for thousands of years.

"It's nice, this. Just us." Jenny tugged on a strand of intestines until it broke. Abbie swore she could hear it _twang._

"Yeah. Doesn't happen very often." Which, if Abbie was being honest, was kind of by design. It wasn't that she didn't love Jenny. How could you not love Jenny? It was that she didn't deserve to love Jenny. Didn't deserve the easy way her sister had forgiven her. If their roles had been reversed, Abbie never would have spoken to her Judas again. But Jenny understood fear and weakness. And she wanted to pick up their sisterhood right where they'd left off thirteen years ago.

Abbie just wasn't quite sure how to do that.

"End of the world keeps us pretty busy." There. She did it again.

"How can you do that?"

"Eat tripe? Got a taste for it in Mexico. Once you get past the smell it's pretty awesome."

"No. Just be so chill about everything. About _me._ I sold you out, I left you out to dry, and I stole your destiny."

Oh. Well. She guessed that was out, now.

Jenny watched her for a long moment, eyes hard and unblinking. Abbie wanted to crawl under the table. Or possibly into the river. Then Jenny scooped up a mammoth mouthful of guacamole. "Let me finish my tacos. Then we'll do this. I knew we were gonna, but…let's eat first."

Every bite landed in Abbie's stomach like an anvil. But she ate it all in nervous, gobbly bites and waited for Jenny to finish.

Her sister took her time. She rolled a finger around the plastic container to get the last squiggles of guacamole. Then she meticulously wiped her hands clean.

"After I got out of Tarrytown, after you told me what you and Crane were, I wondered why not me. Of course I wondered."

"It should have been you," Abbie said fervently. "You would have been so much better. You understand this stuff. You _believe _this stuff. And you're tough and smart and a hell of a fighter and—"

"And I don't play nicely with others. The partner thing you and Crane have going on? Wouldn't have worked for me. I can pull it off for a while, but then I'm gone." Jenny began folding her taco wrappers into origami. The greasy paper unfolded almost immediately, but she kept working at it.

"That's not true. You work so well with us. We would have been fucked without you."

"Yeah, because usually my job was finding you a thing. I'm good at that. Better than Hawley for damn sure."

"And less of a dick about it."

They shared echoing grins.

"But while part of me thinks I should be mad that I wasn't special or chosen, part of me is so relieved. I wouldn't want that. That destiny. I fight because I want to. Because Corbin showed me how important it is. I'm the lucky one, Abbie. I get free will." Her sister, who had suffered in asylums and prisons and as a prisoner in her own body, looked at Abbie with pity stinging in her eyes. "I wish it wasn't you. But there's no one else I'd rather have fighting for me."

Crane had given her so, so many speeches like this. Why they were special, why they would prevail. But this was the first one Abbie actually believed. She started to speak, but her voice was caught in her throat. She tried again. "You looked just like Mama when you said that. Mama on her good days," she quickly amended. "On her best days."

"I knew what you meant. And thanks." She gave up on her origami.

Abbie leaned her head against Jenny's shoulder. "I can't do this without you. You know that, right? Wouldn't even want to try."

Jenny's arm wrapped around her. And even though Abbie was the big sister, even though she was the one who was supposed to save the world, she felt safe for the first time in a long time. "You won't have to. I won't let you bury anybody else. I promise."

In the space of an hour, they'd used up more words than they'd spoken to each other in the last month. So neither one was upset when they fell into easy silence and watched the ships sail on by.


	4. Part Four

**veilsofgold****asked: I lied. One more prompt if you have the time but if you don't thats cool too! Ichabbie having sex under a christmas tree D Bonus points if Crane gets wrapped up in tinsel somehow lol.**

Abbie harmonized with Bing Crosby as she artfully draped tinsel on the last few bare patches of tree. "Where the treetops glisten and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow."

"Tell me, Abigail, have you ever in your life even _heard _a sleigh bell?"

"Don't interrupt Bing. And get that star on straight."

"You are reminiscing about a thing you've never experienced."

"May your days be merry and bright," Abbie sang at the top of her lungs, drowning out his grinchiness, "and may all your Christmases be white."

"Thank God it's over."

Abbie hit repeat. The orchestra swelled. "You are not going to bring me down. From now until December twenty-five, I am going to be corny as shit. There is going to be singing and wassailing and cookies and little Jesuses in tiny-ass mangers. And if you keep Scrooging all over me, you are going to be wishing your hand a merry Christmas until 2015."

Her Christmases had mostly ranged from uneventful to bleak to dire. But now she had everything she needed. She had Jenny and she had Crane and she had a ten-pound ham and she had a YouTube tutorial on how to wrap your presents up extra cute in burlap. And she was not going to let anyone take that from her. Least of all him.

She hopped down from the step stool and reached for a strand of aggressively red garland. But Crane snatched it away first.

"I will fight you," she threatened.

He flung the garland over her head so it nestled just across her ass. And he tugged her forward. "My apologies, dear heart. Your joy is a gift in and of itself, and I am but an ass lowing outside the stable."

"Mhmm. Glad we're on the same page there." He smiled ruefully. She smoothed a palm over his nipple, faintly peaked through his white linen shirt. "But it's the season of forgiveness, so I'll let you make it up to me."

"You truly are an angel."

He dotted her neck with kisses, soft and fleeting as snowflakes. He sank to his knees and did the same to her belly, kisses falling fast and hot against her sweater-warmed skin. His beard rasped, his tongue lapped. And then he drew her to the floor beside him.

Crane tried to tug her sweater off, but somehow managed to get his own arms wrapped all up in the tinsel. Flakes of red stuck to his skin until he finally managed to rip it off and fling it behind him. Abbie just laughed and ditched the sweater on her own. The jeans were a cooperative effort though, as was her bra.

More kisses fell, but these were slower, more leisurely. Some were so soft she wasn't quite if he was touching her or if she just crackled with his nearness. Some were hard enough to bruise, and those made her moan loudest of all.

She loved watching his fingers slip beneath the waistband of her panties. Leaned back against the silky tree skirt and let him caress his way down her thighs, her knees, her calves, her ankles, tracing every bit of her with porny reverence.

He sprawled between her thighs and smiled that half-shy, half-cocky douchebag grin that made her knees shake a little. "Oh, Abbie. You sounded so beautiful earlier. But now I am going to make you _sing._"

That was all talk. Abbie wasn't a screamer and he knew it. Her orgasms tended to come with sighs and cursing instead of shrieks. But hey, poetic license. This was Crane, after all. She settled back.

He licked her up; he licked her down. He stroked with the broad of his tongue and flitted with the narrow tip. And it was all very nice; she gasped and balled the tree skirt in her hands and waited.

He hit every damn spot on the map except the place she most wanted him.

She gave a little yank on his hair and his head popped up, beard glistening. "Patience," he scolded as he drug one of those gorgeous fingers through her folds and then curled it deep inside her. Another finger joined it. Then another.

Abbie tried to find the rhythm, tried to grind herself against him and find some much-needed friction, but he kept changing the pace—fast fast fast, slow, fast slow fast, slowwwwwww. She let one of her own hands rasp over her breast, then down between her legs just to the spot—

Crane smacked it away. "This is _my _gift to you. Let me give it."

She flopped back with a groan.

Then his head was back between her thighs and the electricity started to build. Despite her best efforts, little squeaks and hisses tore their way free. But Crane wasn't satisfied. After one last lick like he was finishing off an ice cream cone, he kissed his way up—her stomach jumped—and applied that pussy-drenched tongue to her breasts.

"_Crane_. You are killing me."

An eyebrow waggle was his only response. But then, his mouth was pretty full.

He kissed and tugged at her nipples until she was panting and aching. Then his fingers were inside her again and she was being pulled tighter and brought higher and she bowed her back and cried out and then finally, finally he fastened his lips around her clit and she was so close and he started humming and—

She didn't just see stars. She saw all three wise men, a herd of sheep and some fucking camels for good measure. And when she came down, still gasping, her throat was raw and sore.

And this asshole was languidly licking at her pussy and humming "White Christmas."

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: :D *deep breathes* Okay this is going to be wildly specific I'm sorry. Jealous Ichabod at his birthday party. Some lost year Ichabbie as context. Abbie's with a date. Katrina is present and trying to get back into Ichy's good graces but he's having none of it. Tipsy Ichabod drags Abbie off the dance floor and into a empty room where he demands his birthday present and they do very bad things that they are both conflicted about... Or not... Go as heavy or light on the angst as you want. :D TY!<strong>

There were entirely too many _people._Deputies and reenactors and the kind lady from the diner who gave him double portions to "fatten him up" and antiques dealers and _no._

Too many bodies too closely pressed. Too much noise drilling into his ears. And too many of the florid green and sickly sweet _appletinis_Miss Jenny insisted were à la mode.

Most of all, too little her.

He found the lieutenant dancing with a little spit of a man. _Brendan._Even the name felt shifty and feckless. And he danced appallingly, without an ounce of the grace she exhibited in the slightest arch of her neck or undulation of her hips.

He should wait for the song to conclude and then ask if he might steal but a moment of her time. But it was his _birthday_and the liquor was beginning to grumble unhappily in his guts and…

And he missed her.

After a moment's surprise, she peeled herself away from Brendan (her fingers stroked away down his arm as she left him) and followed Ichabod to the antechamber in which the revelers had piled their coats. Even the lieutenant had discarded her customary leather jacket and wore only the thinnest, most achingly white chemise.

"You having fun, Crane?"

"Not as of yet. For I have not received my gift from you." The room was too bright; he huffed great lungfuls of air in, as if each were thinner than what he was accustomed to.

"Oh." She scratched at the back of her neck. A scent of something he could almost place—lily of the valley?—wafted from her skin. "I didn't bring it. Tomorrow's your actual birthday. I was gonna give it to you then."

"Oh," he echoed. A tide of disappointment scudded against him. It was foolishness. She had given him so much already. And yet whatever she gave him tonight, he knew he would treasure.

"But you're gonna like it. I know you are." Her lower lip caught between her teeth. He could not look away. "What do you hope it is?"

"You."

Her lip was freed. "Uh?"

"Perhaps _us _would be a more accurate phrasing."

"Well. You already have both a me and an us, so I think you're gonna be disappointed."

"But I haven't. Not anymore." He folded himself onto the mound of coats. More huffing breaths.

Her arms embraced herself as if she were chilled. "Let's not talk about this. Not when you've been drinking. Not when I've been drinking."

"With all the things we no longer speak of, 'tis a wonder we find words left to exchange at all."

They did not speak of Katrina. They both knew his marriage was a tatter, but that without him the witchling was as helpless as a newborn babe. That on her own, she would surely die.

They did not speak of Brendan and his rabbit-y front teeth or his nasal whine or the fact that Crane could pop the man into his pocket and carry him about like a toy.

They certainly did not speak of Henry and Ichabod's greatest folly.

But above all, they never spoke of the pregnant air that hung between them always.

"What we had wasn't healthy. We were too much, too close. It couldn't last."

"We were _happy_," he spit. "Even amidst all that death and all that pain, you and I kindled a glowing ember of happiness. And just when it began to flame into something more—"

"Then life happened. Your _wife _happened. So this has to be us now. And we have to find a way to be happy in that." Yet her every word was steeped in misery.

"Do you love him?"

Her smile was grim. "'bout as much as you love her."

"Then why?" He slammed his hand against the springy pile of coats. It bounced back up and smacked him in the shoulder. He stared at his arm as if it were a foreign thing.

When he looked up again, she was kneeling beside him.

"Mama said we don't get to make our choices. And she was right." He drew her hand to his breast. Surely if she could only feel its frantic beat, how he came alive at her very touch and only her touch, then—"There's no _us _in our stars, Ichabod."

She smelled of lilies and hops. Then she tasted of another man's lips. For an endlessly brief moment, he was home.

Then she was gone. And the road of his days stretched before him on a horizonless plain.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: Prompt: how about one with jealous Ichabod. Like Abbie and Luke having been working together a lot so Ichabod's in a pissy mood. There's a snowstorm and Jenny tells him that abbie and Luke are snowed in just to see him like freak out and rush over there or something.<strong>

She almost missed the pounding over the howling of the wind. When she finally stumbled to the door, Crane stood on the mat, eyes wild, icicles dangling from his beard.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"Might I come in?" he chattered. "Or do you already have c-c-company?"

"Crane, it is a red snow emergency out there. What the hell kinda company am I gonna have?" She tugged him inside. He shook himself like a polar bear and sent damp clods of snow flying. "You aren't even supposed to be out unless it's life or death. Tell me it's not life or death." Because she did not want to go out in this swirling whiteout. She especially didn't want to see what blood looked like sprayed across a perfect expanse of snow.

"It-it's not life or d-d-" He gave a huge, full-body sneeze. "Death."

Normally Abbie thought the phrase "you'll catch your death out there" was hyperbole, but illness hit Crane like a freight train. And scared the shit out of her. She wasn't going to deal with that again if she could avoid it. "Let's get you warmed up. Then you can tell me what was so goddamn important."

He stripped off his coat and boots and she plopped him in front of the space heater with a blanket around his shoulders and a cup of coffee in his hands.

"My apologies, Lieutenant. I hadn't meant for you to make a fuss over me." He sat up straight, his head on a swivel like a meerkat.

"Then what exactly did you mean by trekking three miles through a snowstorm to see me?"

He slurped his coffee. Stared into it. Slurped again. "I received a call from Miss Jenny."

Abbie's heart leapt to her mouth. "She okay?"

"Yes, quite. She was visiting Big Ash when the storm blew up and assures me they are as cozy as two people could possibly be." They looked at each other and shrugged. He continued: "But she intimated that Detective Morales paid you a visit today."

"Yeah. He did. We were going over some paperwork. There's been an inquest into Andy's death and it's nasty, so we were taking a look at it together."

Slurrrrp. "I see."

"This is the part where you explain why Luke being here meant you needed to go all Balto on me."

"Balto?"

"Stalling."

He cleared his throat. "It would be most unseemly for you and the detective to be captive alone. And seeing as he is your former beau, I thought to save you some measure of discomfort by acting as chaperone."

Abbie was going to murder Jenny. Murder her until she was dead. "You rushed all the way over here to preserve my honor? That the story you're going with?"

"Is there a story that will result in a less frightening countenance on your part?"

Abbie stole his coffee and drank the last mouthful. "Nope. Because, smart guy, Luke lives in the next apartment building over. He left twenty minutes ago. And now you're stuck with me until they can plow us out."

He looked up at her from under those long lashes of his. "A hideous fate, to be sure."

A cool chill twirled down her spine. Must be a draft.

Yeah. A draft.

* * *

><p><strong>nymeriaofessos<strong>**asked: ~~ a fic prompt for you ^_^ ~~ In a fit of range Katrina reveals to Team Witness that she has casts spells on Crane, manipulating certain situations throughout his life causing him to become one of the Witnesses. So now Ichabod is obviously devastated and feels he is not worthy to continue the good fight.**

I am a child and nothing more.

Since first I set foot upon these wilding shores, I have made not a single decision of my own choosing. Oh, the illusion was there, and a fine one too. I thought myself so clever, so brave, so virtuous. I trusted so blindly in my own goodness that I believed the smoke instead of the flame.

I am a rook who fancied himself a knight.

I earned nothing but was given all. And still I do not know why. Did God see me in my mother's womb and know me as His own? Was my destiny branded into my flesh, a mark only the chosen could see? Or did Katrina know me for a weak and malleable man and press fate upon my foolish head?

I am a puppet who dances to phantom songs.

At every turn, I have been shepherded while she has been forced to wander alone in the wilderness. My way was made straight, but hers has been filled with thorns. And while she has suffered beyond all measure, some spiteful bit of me envies her so. For her actions are her own. Every mistake has been of her own doing, and she has done penance for each one. Her conscience can be clear. Yet I still do not know the harm that has been done for my sake, so how may I atone?

I am an empty vessel, waiting to be filled with whatever my Creator decides I need.

This destiny is not mine. This life is not mine. Yet she says I am worthy. Not because I am clever ("not half as smart as you think"), not because I am virtuous ("you care too much to really be a good man"). But because I am me. And she says that is enough. That Witness or no, she claims me as her own.

O God, in this I rejoice to be as clay to the potter. Shape me into the man who deserves that woman, and I shall be Your Witness forevermore.

* * *

><p><strong>soulswan<strong>**asked: Hello! Just wanted to start by saying you're such a talented writer! Thank you for doing this! If it's all right, I'd really love to see Ichabod and Abbie at the end of the seven years of the prophecy. It could be their final battle or leading up to that... Whatever works best for you!**

She probably should feel something more. Or maybe not. Was there an appropriate reaction to looking down at your own corpse? She mostly just felt tired. A little grossed out, because she had not left behind a pretty corpse. Or had a pretty death. But it was over now. And it hadn't been so bad, in the end.

Crane's body lay beside hers. Well. Not a body. Not quite yet. She could still see blood bubbling in the ruined whirlpool of his chest as air somehow still found its way into and out of his lungs. And that was what got her. Watching him in his last seconds of brokenness. Waiting for him to come home.

Then he was standing beside her, whole once again. "We saw so many failed prophecies. How very unfortunate that this one had to be correct," he said.

Ah, Crane. Ever the optimist. She'd known. There had too many times when they'd survived when they shouldn't have. Too many other soldiers fallen while they lived on—Irving, Takuma, Calvin, Reyes, Suzette, Jenny. Macey, now a warrior every bit as tough as her father had been, was on this battlefield somewhere. Or had been. But every time, Abbie and Crane had scraped through. But 1,260 days were all they got. It sounded like so much time; it had been so little.

"Prophecy says we get better," she said.

"And then ascend heavenward whilst an earthquake turns the city to rubble."

"But we have three days before that happens." He cast a questioning look down at her. "C'mon. We're fucking ghosts. We can go anywhere, do anything. We don't have to stand around crying over our meat suits and watching this play out to its depressing conclusion." She held out her hand. "Let's make these three days count."

To her relief, his hand settled into hers. For all her big talk, she had no idea how this ghost thing worked. But he could touch her. He was here with her. And as long as that was true, everything was going to be fine.

They walked through the smoke and the blood and the dying. Abbie caught a glimpse of Macey, still hurling spells from her wheelchair. She nudged Crane and they both smiled. They walked away from the battlefield, away, away, until Sleepy Hollow faded entirely. The pavement turned to grass under their feet and then Crane was laughing and pulling her along, running through green meadows he'd known as a boy.

They went everywhere in those three days. All the places they'd never gotten to go together. They took in that ball game in Brooklyn, though they had to skip the hotdogs and cheap beer. Crane showed her London, Oxford, Paris, the cities he had known and loved, and they discovered their newness together. They fucked on a deserted island speckled in some unknown sea until Abbie thought she was going to die all over again. They sat on top of the Great Pyramid and watched the sun rise. They stood in the front row of a Beyonce concert and Abbie sang along at the top of her lungs, knowing no one could hear her.

Together, they saw the very best of the world they had saved. And when the three days ended, they found themselves in Sleepy Hollow once more.

Their bodies were still there, bloated and worm-eaten. But they were just outgrown clothes now. No matter what happened, they were here. And they were together. Everything else was just details.

And they heard a loud voice from heaven saying to them, "Come up here." And so they did. Hand in hand, as always.

* * *

><p><strong>jennonthego<strong>**asked: Abbie/Crane - breakfast in bed**

Abbie slipped her hand into her bedside drawer and drew out her sidearm. She used to sleep with it under her pillow like people in the movies did; then she worked a scene where a guy accidentally smeared his wife's brains against the wall that way.

Someone was here. They were trying to be quiet, but someone was definitely_here,_in her apartment. Cabinets were being opened and softly closed; drawers rolled out and back in. Some junkie looking for a wad of cash? Or one of Henry's minions looking for dirt? She glanced at the green glowing clock. 8:16 a.m. Little early for junkies. Or a little late, depending on how you wanted to look at it. She flicked off the safety.

She took a step toward her closed bedroom door. Hesitated. Considered putting on pants. But no, fuck it, she could take someone out in her nightshirt and panties as easily as in jeans. Took another step…and heard the intruder coming down the hall toward her.

In a flash, she crouched on the far side of the bed, Glock leveled at the door, head as low as she could get it while she kept her bead on. _Please just be a meth head, _she prayed. She didn't want to shoot anyone.

The knob turned. Abbie fought the urge to tense up, forced her shoulders to stay low and relaxed, kept her finger off the trigger.

The door opened. "Freeze and put your hands in the air," she said.

"That leaves me in a bit of a dilemma, Lieutenant."

Why. Why had she thought giving Crane a key was a good idea? Because instead of using it for emergencies, now he was standing in her doorway at 8:18 in the morning with a laden tray and a sheepish smile.

"Freezing is simple enough. But it would be a terrible shame to fling my hands into the air and so squander your breakfast, to say nothing of what it would do to your carpets." He lifted the tray, as if she'd missed it. "What would you have me do, Officer?"

Abbie flicked the safety back on and carefully put her gun back in its place. Then she let her forehead fall onto the mattress. "What are you doing here?" she asked her sheets.

"Yesterday—this whole week—has taken a toll on you. I thought a bit of nourishment at your leisure might help you regain your vigor." The tray rattled as he set it on the edge of the bed. "If I have miscalculated, I shall make my apologies and take my leave."

Yesterday. The séance. Her mom. Yeah. Taking a toll was one way of putting it. And when she got stressed, she stopped eating. And Crane knew those kinds of things. Noticed when nobody else did. Even when he was still recovering from being so sick, he saw. And he did something about it.

She lifted her head. The tray was stacked high with enough food for a week of breakfasts. Little bowls of granola and yogurt. Sliced bananas and blueberries. Coffee _and _tea _and _orange juice _and _milk. And pastries. A ridiculous spread of crullers and donut holes and croissants and even a fucking PopTart.

"You did this? For me?"

Something painful flashed through his eyes. "Good Lord, Miss Mills, of course I did it for you. It is quite honestly the very, very least I could do."

Her eyes stung. Not just because he'd brought her breakfast in bed, but because he'd cared enough to check on her. To make sure _she_was all right. That he saw her struggle and wanted to carry part of the load. "That was real sweet. But I almost shot you."

"Yes. That would have put rather a damper on the festivities. Still, all's well that ends well." He pushed the tray toward her and stood. "My apologies again for the intrusion. I shall leave you to your repast."

"Not so fast. There's no way I can eat all this. And there's nothing I hate more than wasted food. You're just gonna have to stay and help me." She slid back into bed and reached for a chocolate croissant. Crumbs be damned. "Pull up some mattress and stay awhile."

He considered the bed in silence. His fingers twitched. But then he plopped back down, tugged his boots off, and sprawled on top of the covers. She picked up the mug of coffee; he claimed the tea. They clinked mugs and broke bread.

* * *

><p><strong>ellethom1<strong>**asked: Crane and Abbie My prompt is turn about I would love to read a fic about sex in a public library in the stacks Bonus points for Crane or Abbie dressed as librarian**

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Staring at me. I can see you, you know. That's rather the point."

"I'm just not used to you in glasses."

Ichabod pushed the spectacles up his nose and cleared his throat. He wasn't entire comfortable with the panes of glass wavering just before his eyes, but they had become necessary when poring over research. Otherwise the letters fuzzed and blurred and gave him the most ferocious headache. "Yes, well, I suggest you accustom yourself. We've a great lot of work to do and your gaping is not useful."

"There's nothing here, Crane. This library sucks. The only thing it has on banshees are a couple kid's books and a terrible B-horror movie from the '90s. It's a dead end." She resumed her scrutiny of his face. "I dig the glasses though. Very hipster. Though I guess you were a hipster before hipsters were cool," she snickered.

"Speak sense or not at all." He turned his page with a scowl.

She sighed. "Look, I think maybe there were some more manuscripts over in the 200s, but they were up _way_high. Come on, tall person. I need your height."

He wished to protest—he was feeling distinctly contrary today—but seeing as his own tome was a dead end, he rose and followed her. She wended her way through a dizzying array of books, more books than he'd seen in his life entire as a man of the eighteenth century. They passed patrons browsing for mysteries and cookery books, but as they reached the aisles that held books on religion and "mythology," the crowds thinned. The stacks grew shadowy and dim, a veritable forest of books.

"Where are they?" he asked.

"I lied." She seized him by the collar and drug him into a dizzying kiss.

He came up gasping. "Abigail, this is a _library. _It's like—it's like a church!"

"I just can't resist a man in glasses." She grinned and kissed him again, this time with rather more teeth, ferocious and devouring. Then she reached for the falls of his trousers.

He seized her hands. "You can't mean—"

She looked up at him soberly. "Crane, you'll have to be quiet. This is a _library._" She mocked him with his own words. And then she sank to her knees.

He maintained his silence when she drew him forth. Even managed to bite his tongue when she slipped the length of him into her mouth. But when she looked up at him with dark eyes and flicked her tongue across the head of his cock, a groan tore its way out from the very pit of his belly.

She pulled back at once, leaving him aching and panting. "Quiet in the library," she whisper-scolded.

"You wouldn't dare." Her eyebrows raised. He swallowed and drew his sleeve across his mouth, his teeth clamping down on the rough fabric. She smiled her satisfaction and fell upon him once more.

She was utter magic. Her hands and tongue and lips were dastardly and clever, lathering him to frantic arousal. Despite his best efforts, muffled grunts and whines forced their way around his makeshift gag. Every time one of them did, she slackened her pace, leaving him to do penance for his sins and teeter on the very edge of bliss. When he threaded fingers through her hair and tried to urge her on, she let him slide from her mouth entirely.

"We must—if someone should come along—oh God—" The very idea of some hapless reader stumbling upon the scene caused him to harden even more, if such a thing were possible.

"What is it you want?" she whispered, at once innocent and sly.

"Please."

"Say it."

"Let me come, Abbie."

Her lips enveloped him once more, and he just had time to clamp a hand over his mouth to contain his shout before he dissolved into nothingness.

When he knew himself again, he found his back against the shelf, books cascading down around him. Abbie was climbing to her feet and laughing. "Well, you tried." She leaned up to kiss the place where the lenses of his glasses joined whilst he stuffed himself away before someone came to see about the commotion.

"But what of you?" he asked as she took him by the hand and led him from the scene of the crime. "It hardly seems right to leave you unsated."

"Oh don't worry. I'm gonna be sated all right. But you know there's no way I can stay quiet when you're working me over." She squeezed his hand tightly. "Let's go home and make some noise."

* * *

><p><strong>darlablovesichabbie<strong>**asked: got another idea. abbie is at the cabin treating ichabod's high fever. not realizing he fell asleep abbie hears ichabod confess his feelings for her. abbie starts to confess how she feels when he wakes up cutting her response mid sentence and never revealing what she was going to say. not sure if his feelings were real or from his fever she keeps his confession a secret.**

Abbie was scared.

His fever wasn't breaking. The thermometer read 104.6° and had for hours. But she didn't need a thermometer to see how bad it was. His face was sheened with sweat but he shivered; he alternated between chalky pale and floridly flushed.

He needed a doctor. His immune system was weird—dude had survived smallpox and dysentery, but every cold and flu was a major event. But as bad as he was right now, she couldn't get him into the car. That meant calling an ambulance. And for an uninsured man who didn't even exist, that meant thousands of dollars in bills. Money he—they—didn't have.

She'd do it if she had to. If that thermometer hit 105°, she'd bury herself up to her eyeballs in debt for the rest of her life if that's what it took. But first, she'd try everything else.

The Internet said to keep him cool. She took away the pile of blankets he'd hunkered under and left him with just a sheet. He tried to grab them back, but she was firm. She knocked logs around in the fireplace until the flames winked out.

And he shivered and whimpered like a pathetic puppy, curling into a tight knot. "Please, Lieutenant," he begged, "please."

"I know. But we have to get you cool." She poked the thermometer under his tongue. 104.7°.

She helped him strip down to his boxers—he protested, not because he was embarrassed, but because he was freezing—tugging the fabric from his heavy, freakishly long limbs.

She wetted a wash cloth and sponged cool water over him, wiping away the sweat that coated every inch. Goosebumps followed after her touch. She found more cloths and left them on his wrists, his neck, his forehead, everyplace his pulse jumped and twitched under the skin.

"The snow is too deep," he mumbled. "The provisions can't reach us, General. The men will leave, and those that stay, they'll…" he trailed off, his lips still moving but producing not even a whisper.

"Crane, there's no snow. There's no _general. _You're safe and you're okay." Maybe that last part was a lie, but Jesus, she hoped not.

"Lieutenant?" He sounded surprised. "What are you doing here?"

Her mouth turned cottony dry. "I've been here for an hour. You're not feeling so hot, so I'm helping you out."

"Needn't trouble yourself. Katrina says she's cast a healing charm." He laughed. Abbie didn't.

She tried to be patient. Let him rest. She raked her fingers through his hair and sang to him, hummed to him, anything to let him know that someone was here and someone was helping. But he just kept curling in on himself, in on himself, his body trembling and shaking until she couldn't take it anymore.

She tossed the damp rags aside and dropped the blankets back on top of him. But still he trembled, still he mumbled about snow and Valley Forge and something about drinking the last of the rum and then before she knew it, Abbie was slipping her shoes off and slipping into bed beside him.

It was the only way to make sure he was warm all over, she reasoned. To get heat right up against his skin, to stop that hideous shivering. She debated the best way of doing it, whether she should be the little spoon and let him curl around her like a water bottle. But something wouldn't let her do that. It would leave her too vulnerable, and she needed to be in control of this situation. For his good. Of course for his good.

So she slid in behind him and, after just a second's hesitation, curved her body around his like the shore to the ocean. He thrashed once in surprise. "You?" he asked.

Who did he think she was? Katrina, probably. "Me," she said simply. For right now, she'd be whoever he needed her to be.

Heat rolled off him, and soon her clothes clung stickily. But it didn't matter. She tightened her grip on him, one arm latching across his chest, the other firm around his waist. "You're okay. You're warm and you're safe and I'm here."

She counted his ragged breaths, reassured every time his back heaved against her chest. After dozens, maybe hundreds of breaths, he muttered something.

"What?"

"I'm always warm and safe if you're here."

The temperature ratcheted up several degrees. Not her. Wasn't her. He meant Katrina. He meant Mary. He meant some mysterious succubus only he could see. Not her. Couldn't be her.

She held him tighter.

"I've wanted…I've tried…but you won't listen. You won't _hear._"

She was silent. She was still. Was it dangerous to tell someone their hallucinations weren't real? Like waking a sleep walker? She didn't know.

"Sometimes I think of my life before you. The life I thought was happy. The life I thought was…" His words jumbled and blurred. His hips ground back against her, and it took everything she had not to bolt away. "But I was the bound man in the cave, the one-eyed king who thought shadows reality."

That was it. She had to stop this. Fuck it, she'd find a way to pay for the ambulance. But he wasn't making sense.

"But you have changed everything. You have become my sun." She started to climb out of bed. "You have become my _Abbie_."

Even slurred and distorted, he spoke her name like a prayer. She froze, one leg dangling toward the floor, her arms still wrapped around him. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I see now. Because of you, I see."

Her brain stuttered and stalled. But something else took over. A part of herself that didn't get a spot in the driver's seat very often. A part of her she tried to pretend didn't exist.

"I know what you mean. I think I do, anyway." She needed to _stop talking. _But she didn't. "Before you I was fine. I was okay. But something about _you—_not our destiny, not us being Witnesses, but about _you—_just makes everything new." Her fingers stroked along the back of his neck, skimmed over the peaks and ridges of bone. "I don't know what that means. For me, for you, for us. But I think I'd like to—"

"Lieutenant?" Something was different about his voice. It was deeper, clearer, surer. "Not that I'm not delighted to see you, but what the devil are you doing in my bed?"

"You don't remember?"

"I've only just awoken. Last I recall you were stealing my coverlet."

She disentangled herself and leaped out of bed as quick as she could. Now she was the one dripping with sweat. "You were dreaming."

"Was I chattering on in my sleep? I used to do that when I was a boy, terrified the servants mightily. I do apologize." He blinked up at her with clear eyes and a knot loosened in her chest while another tightened in her belly. "You look stricken. What have I—"

She popped the thermometer into his mouth. "Nothing I didn't already know, Crane. Don't worry about it."

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: I know this may have been done before, but can you please write Ichabod and Abbie at some Sleepy Hollow ball? With Abbie being super done and Ichabod being a dork? And if you can add it, perhaps some supernatural stuff goes down and ruins it? Please and thank you!<strong>

"I'm late, I'm late, I'm sorry," Abbie called as she skittered up the stairs as fast as her spiked heels would allow. Crane was already standing at the top, his back to her, hands folded neatly. He turned at the sound of her voice.

She stopped, suspended between two stair trends. And she stared.

Crane was wearing a tux. Nothing weird, nothing fancy, just a classic black and white tuxedo that fit him like a dream come true. His shoulders were broad, his waist impossibly narrow. The white, white shirt reflected in his pale eyes. His hair was slicked back, sleek and smooth for once, his pony tail (_stallion tail, _he always insisted) lying low over his shoulders. He was the strangest, most perfect balance of classic and modern she'd ever seen.

Something wobbled inside her. This was different. This was _new. _He wasn't a Witness. Not now. Wasn't her partner, wasn't some mouthy burden she had to push through the world. Wasn't even her friend. Looking at him, standing on those stairs with his lips parted and his eyes fastened on her, he was something much simpler and much, much more complicated.

He was a man.

"You look," he started.

"_You _look," she finished.

He swept down the stairs between her, making up the distance in long, fast steps. His cheeks were as pink as if he'd smeared himself with blush. "Truly, Lieutenant, I…" His words sputtered out again. His eyes darted, unsure where it was safe to land. And Abbie had to admit: She did look good. Dresses weren't her thing usually; made her feel too exposed. But in a black leather sheath that skimmed just above her knees, all covered with a filmy layer of silk that dappled her collarbones in shadows, she felt pretty but protected. Add in glittering jet earrings and hair with a little curl, just to give a hint of softness and yeah. She gave herself an upgrade: she looked _damn _good.

"You clean up pretty okay yourself, Crane," she supplied.

He blinked out of his stupor and fumbled in his breast pocket. Out came a simple corsage—a single yellow rose that flushed to unexpected flashes of red at its tips. "May I?"

Her skin felt crackly and hot. Surely if he touched her he'd feel it too, would feel that fundamental change.

"Sure," she said.

He lifted her hand. She was feverish in his grasp. He took his time positioning the blossom so it was perfectly centered, bowing just over the top of her hand. And he tied the crisscrossing ribbons with infinite patience and care. "All right there, Lieutenant?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah?" Her voice rose uncertainly. She cleared her throat. "Yeah, it's good. Thank you. 's pretty."

She waited for him to pull away. But he lingered a moment later, his long fingers circling all the way around her wrist. Finally, finally, when she was waiting to just spontaneously fucking combust, he bent his head low. She wasn't even sure his lips touched her skin, which was just as well: She'd have turned him to ashes.

He took her arm and tucked it beneath his. They continued up the stairs together, two matches trying desperately not to ignite.

And then the music began.

And then they looked at one another.

And then the lights went out and the screams started.

Abbie was almost relieved to drop his arm, swipe her little .22 from her thigh holster, and get to work.

He wasn't gonna get the safety deposit back on that tux. And her plan of returning the dress was out the window. They were both covered pretty good in sweat and blood (not theirs) and streaks of smoke. But a dead will o' the wisp and no human casualties, that was a W in her book.

They staggered back to her car. "So much for the Sleepy Hollow Policeman's Ball. Guess we'll try again for a normal night next year."

"But you owe me a dance, Lieutenant. I'll not wait a year entire to claim it." He'd sacrificed his bowtie for a tourniquet, so his shirt hung open, curls of hair peeking through. His hair had come loose from its tidy queue and he looked softer, younger, sweeter. He extended a hand.

The heat flared to life again with pulsing, licking intensity. And though she knew she was gonna be sorry, she took his hand.

They silently swayed beneath a lone streetlight in their shredded finery, the smell of roses hanging heavy on the wind.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: Please could you write a fic that has Abbie taking Ichabod to a photo booth, and Abbie tries to loosen Ichabod up by making couple of weird faces until he starts smiling for the photos. You can put in some fluff as well :) Thank you!<strong>

"Pathetic."

"_Pathetic,_" he echoed, snatching the photo strip from her hand. "It's a rather fine likeness, thank you very much. Perhaps my hair has grown a trifle long, but in sum, I look a bit dashing."

She took the pics back and squinted at them. "You do kinda look like George Washington."

"How very kind of you. Th—"

"All grimacey and not wanting to smile because everyone will see your rotten-ass teeth."

"That was most uncalled for. As for smiling, it is simply not done in portraiture," he sniffed.

"This isn't portraiture, Crane. It's a Sir Smiles-A-Lot photo booth in a K-Mart parking lot. You smile. It's _done._"

"What, on command?"

"Yeah. When you see the little red light flash, you just smile. Or make a stupid face. Or do anything but grump at the camera."

"But smiling is a spontaneous gesture of joy. Of what value is a false expression?"

"Then don't make it a false one. Think happy thoughts."

Crane's scowl deepened. Abbie sighed and shooed him away from the little stool. "Move. I'll show you."

He stepped to one side and she plopped down. The red light flashed, and she gave her best duckface. _Flash._ She crossed her eyes. _Flash._She smiled like a little girl on school picture day. _Flash. _She tried to touch her tongue to the tip of her nose._Flash._She stared dead-eyed at the camera like Crane had. _Flash._She jushed her fingers through her hair and mimed a scream.

"And that is how it is done."

"How very edifying. I believe I've the way of it now," Crane said.

With a _bzzt, _the machine spit out the latest strip of photos. Abbie glanced at it and prepared to hand it off to Crane, but something caught her eye. Her jaw dropped.

He was in the background of every frame. Photobombing her. Giving her moose antlers and bunny ears and making the most hilarious, Muppety faces she'd ever seen.

"Are you even for real?" she asked. But he just smirked, stole the photos, and slipped from the booth.

* * *

><p><strong>thelunaaltar<strong>**asked: Frank goes to Crane's cabin - looking for Washington's Bible - to not only make the shocking discovery that Ichabbie's been sleeping together, but also's been having rough, kinky sex. I want him to peice this together, Blues Clues style. thankyou ;u;**

It wasn't in the freezer. Or the fridge. All that was there was some beer, a bottle of chocolate syrup, and a jar with two lonely pickle chips bobbing. About like his, then.

It wasn't on the bookshelf, amid the seemingly hundreds of Tom Clancy paperbacks, religious esoterica, and…_The Joy of Sex? _Three version of _The Kama Sutra, _including one in what Irving kinda thought might be Sanskrit?

Corbin musta been a weird dude.

He poked his head into the bedroom. Everything was old and battered, most of all the headboard, which had disturbing parallel grooves gouged into the wood, almost like fingernail scratches.

The sheets were silk.

Uh. Okay. Maybe after a life of sleeping on straw or whatever the fuck Crane liked to pamper himself. Whatever. Irving himself had some silk boxers that were pretty comfy.

Mission, Frank. Keep to the goddamn mission. Find the thing and get the everloving fuck out of here. He looked under the mattress—too obvious, but he had to check. He refused to look in the bedside drawer. Refused. Didn't know what Crane was getting up to in here, but that was a steaming pile of nope right there.

He did look in the closet, though. Two long coats, a few shirts. That was all. Folded on the top shelf were a couple pairs of those weird pants Crane wore. Irving patted a hand across the top, just in case the Bible was tucked between. He felt something strange, long and thin and—

A riding crop.

He slammed the closet door.

He did _not have time for this. _He sacked drawers. Empty. Empty. Books, papers, drawings. No Bible. Empty. A tangle of rope and leather straps and then—

Well. That was certainly a thing you could strap on.

He forced himself to open the last drawer. It was almost full, with panties and patterned head wraps just like the ones Cynthia wore. Jesus, Irving was almost relieved Crane had a lady friend and wasn't just messing with this stuff solo. He dug to the bottom of the drawer and his fingers closed around something cold and familiar.

A badge. G. A. Mills, it read.

He put it down with a soft _clink _and shut the door. He wiped his hand on his pants and backed out of the room.

It took him another ten minutes to find the Bible, hidden under some loose floorboards near the hearth. It took him almost a week before he could look either Mills or Crane full in the face again.

* * *

><p><strong>abbichamane<strong>**asked: Got a prompt for you: Ichabod watches as Abbie is puzzled/intrigued/delighted/etc. by something from his era.**

"How is this not weird as fuck for you? Because it's kinda weird as fuck for me on your behalf."

"It is a bit odd, I'll grant you." Ichabod nodded to a "soldier" carrying a musket in one hand and some sort of flimsy folding camp chair in the other. "Yet oddly flattering that so many still wish to keep the spirit of revolution and freedom alive in their hearts and in their lives."

"Wish they'd do it by electing smart people and fighting for what they believe in instead of dressing up in pointy hats and pointier shoes, but okay." She gave a placid pony a wide birth.

"You needn't be cross because for once, it is you who stand out and not I." He could not—nor did he make much attempt to—keep the note of smug satisfaction from his voice. It was terribly pleasant to spend an afternoon in which he was comfortable both in his own skin and in the sight of those who looked upon him. Here, her jeans and leather coat marked her as other, as one who would not join in the game. He could slip through the crowd unremarked, and for a few hours, he reveled in the anonymity. "I would be delighted to procure a gown on your behalf. Or if you prefer to keep to your trousers, I could find a very small soldier's uniform."

"Cute. But seriously, isn't everybody doing everything wrong? This can't possibly be what a Revolutionary War camp was like." She waved her hand at the rambly little patch of campfires that studded the soggy hillside. Men and women sat together around the meager flames, sewing or cleaning rifles or texting.

"Well, no," he admitted. "It's a good deal less malodorous, to my everlasting relief. And of course there are differences here and there. In truth, it's the smaller details that draw my attention far more than the egregious modernity."

"Example?"

Ichabod searched for an example; for once, he had not been searching for fault. He had merely appreciated being able to pretend that the world belonged to him once more. But his eyes fell upon a startling device set beside a campfire. "We never would have had one of these in camp. If only we had! It is a—"

"Don't tell me. Let me guess." He was startled; did she need to guess? Was its purpose not plain? True, its beauty put it out of place on this mock battlefield; they never would have carried something so fine nor so heavy. Its base was a strip of iron an inch wide. On each side, graceful metallic arches, one nestled inside the other inside the other, formed a balustrade. In the center, it was attached to a longish handle. A lovely thing, really. He'd not thought of these in years.

"Do you truly not know?"

She held up a silencing finger, and he chose to play her game. She took the device from him. Curious hands stroked the metal. She pressed her face very near to its surface, as though the answers were written upon it. She poked at the side, and seemed startled when the entire central platform rotated smoothly and easily. "Okay, gimme a hint."

"My mother owned one quite like this." On many a night they'd sat before a roaring fire, telling each other stories and spinning the ingenious thing before the flames. But even that fond memory was dimmed with the immediate reality of Miss Mills' intent, intense face.

"Is it like—a boot jack? For getting your shoes clean?"

"Indeed not."

She scrunched her lips to the side and spun the thing again. "Your _mother _had one. Is it for playing cards? Holding your hand?"

He nearly offered a cutting rejoinder—that it would be another two hundred years 'ere she was able to divine his meaning. But he stayed his sharp tongue. He would not mock her curiosity; he would not tease her interest. "No. Our cook had one too, though none so pretty as this. A Welsh woman, she was. She used this to cook up great messy mounds of rarebit."

"I don't know what that is. But the kitchen…" Her eyes darted to the fire, then to the device. Then back again. She slipped her hand between the parallel arches. "Oh my God. It's a toaster."

He laughed, delighted at her discovery. What a beetle-head he was to ever doubt her deductive reasoning. "Very good indeed, Lieutenant. Put it in front of the fire, give it a spin so it won't scorch, and you're well on your way to salvaging stale bread into something delectable."

"We have to try this." She spun the thing again and laughed herself.

Ichabod immediately repaired to the owner of the toaster (and the campsite). "Good morrow, lady. My companion is famished after our long journey from White Hills. Can you spare a crust of bread for a weary traveler?"

In short order, he'd been given two slices of soft, snowy bread from a plastic bag. And moments later, he and the lieutenant squatted before the fire, bickering cheerfully over how quickly to turn the bread, how dark the toast should be, and whether this method would be effective on the toaster pastries he so adored.

She watched the bread crisp with simple joy. But he watched only her.


	5. Part Five

**Anonymous asked: After waking up in a hospital Abbie doesn't remember Ichabod or Jenny getting out of Tarrytown. She doesn't know that the demon in the woods was real and she still believes Corbin and Andy are alive and is dating Luke**

She had survived seven years of tribulation. She had battled and risked and triumphed over a thousand horrors, but in the end, it was an accident that took her from him. A young man in a rush, a red light left unheeded, a gush of blood and a terrifying stillness.

For three days, he held vigil. Sometimes he was joined by Miss Jenny, sometimes he was joined by the friends they two had made, constant reminders of the life they had built together. But always, he stayed and watched and prayed.

On the third day, she awoke. She looked upon him and knew him not. She gazed upon him as a stranger and politely asked for Sheriff Corbin. When he stammered that the good sheriff was indisposed, she asked for Luke.

How was he to tell her the sheriff was eight years dead in his grave? How was he to tell her that Mr. Morales had found a Mrs. Morales, and a host of children besides? That they had danced at his wedding and gone home together arm in arm?

In the end, he said nothing. For once in his life he was mute. He let the doctors speak. He let Miss Jenny speak. And he faded, faded, always in the background, always near, always apart.

_Amnesia, _they called it, a word he knew from its benign Greek antecedent. As though this vast void in her memory, in her _life,_could be termed mere "forgetfulness." The doctors doubted the lost years would ever be regained.

But oh, he longed to. He wished to tell her the story of their introduction, of him in handcuffs and her in mourning, both terrified but both knowing this meeting would change them forever. He burst with the need to tell her of their adventures, to assure her of her bravery, to have her once more mock him for this foolishness. And above all, he wished to reenact their first kiss—his back against the wall, her hands steadying his face, their lips joined in perfect unison.

But if he told her that, there was so much more he would have to explain. He would initiate her once more into a world of demons and horror, of loved ones lost and dreams denied. He would once more pluck her from a life of safety and surety into one where even now, even when the apocalypse was well and truly averted, the night was full of terrors.

And it was a life she was no longer charged to lead. Their destinies fulfilled, they were Witnesses no more. He fought because he chose to, because he had the knowledge and the ability to stand against the tide. But she was innocent as a newborn babe. How could he draw her back into blood and pain? And if he did not, how could he ever explain who he was, what they were to each other?

A thousand times he wished to tell her. A hundred times he nearly did, nearly told her he was not merely a friend, but oh something so much more, deeper than time and truer than blood. But he gazed into her eyes and the words turned to salt in his mouth. It was not that she was untroubled; she still carried her childhood woes and her new misfortunes. But she was _unburdened. _The weight of the world did not sit upon her shoulders. And he could not place it there once more.

He wept as he purged the home they had shared of mystical influence. Swords, spell components, artifacts and trinkets disappeared. Then so too did all his possessions, paltry as they were, each packed away into cases.

Miss Jenny called him a coward and a fool. Accused him of running away rather than putting in the hard work of making Abbie love him again. And perhaps she was right. Miss Jenny fought for her sister every day, to help Abbie rebuild her life, to once more mend the rifts they had healed long ago. But he could not see Abbie risk her life again and again for a world which would not appreciate her sacrifice. He could not stand by and watch her fear and confusion blossom into terror when she once more learned that all her nightmares were true.

So he prepared to leave. It was better this way, better for her to rebuild a life of peace without the questions he would pose. Where he would go, he could not say. He had a car of his own, creaky but his. Little enough money, but he would manage. He always did.

Tomorrow she would return home, to a house that was hers and hers alone, clean and empty of pain. But tonight, he would sit among the shattered memories that were now his lonely burden and he would remember her.

The next morning dawned without sleep ever finding him, but still he lingered. He washed and changed their sheets—_her_sheets—and swept the floors and dusted the shelves. He wished to leave some token, a bouquet of flowers, a letter just in case she asked after him, but he did not. He left his key upon the counter and made to leave.

But she was already standing on the threshold, so terribly thin and pale, but her head canted to the side with her customary curiosity and vibrancy. "What are you doing here?"

No. Not here. Not now. He never could walk away from her. "Where is Miss Jenny?"

"Getting my stuff. What are you _doing _here?"

"Leaving, madam. Only leaving. I beg your pardon." He could. For her sake, he could leave. He stepped around her, but just as they passed, she seized his hand.

He looked back at her sharply, his doltish heart expecting a miracle. Truly believing that she would look at him and remember, that his mere touch could bring her back to herself. But there was no recognition on her face. Only sorrow. Only furious concentration.

"Everybody's not telling me something. And it's got to do with you. I don't…" Her gaze dipped; her lip trembled. But she found her courage and gazed back up at him fiercely. "Who am I to you?"

He shook his head. The words would not come. He could not do this. Not to her. Not to him. "_Tell me_," she pleaded.

"You are my everything," he whispered. Tears scalded his cheeks, and in his despair he felt no shame.

"Then why are you leaving me?" And oh, she sounded lost but resolute, just as she had in those first fevered days after her sheriff died, after she accepted her fate. And he tumbled into love with her all over again.

"Because I wish for you to lead the life you were always meant to have. Please. I must go. " He seized his cases and marched on, ever the soldier, with shoulders straight and chin high.

"Then go," she called coldly. "If it's so easy for you to walk out on me, I'm better off not getting attached in the first place. Good luck with your whatever."

He managed to put one foot in front of the other. He did not manage to still his tongue. "It is no easy task. But it is for your own protection."

"I don't need protecting. I need reminding." Faithless as Lot's wife, Ichabod looked back at her. She was so small. She was so mighty. She could conquer anything. "Stay. Be my everything until I can be yours again."

The door banged open and Jenny was there, burdened with bags and boxes and a steaming bag of Chinese carryout. Her eyes darted from one interlocutor to the other, but they only had eyes for each other. "Okay there, Abs?"

Her sister was silent. Waiting.

Miss Jenny cleared her throat and turned to him. "Thought you'd be gone.. You gonna stay for lunch?"

"Yes," he said at last. "I believe I shall."

* * *

><p><strong>yalegirl03<strong>**asked: Sleepy Hollow prompt. Abbie and Ichabod have to hunt a demon at the Tarrytown Comic Con. It is harder than they expect. They have to be in costume in order to blend in.**

"I rather like this." Crane turned in front of the mirror. "The coat is splendid. The jacket and trousers, while a bit slimmer than one might have hoped, are at least far more freeing than the _skinny jeans_. Admittedly, the shoes are a bit odd, but…springy." He bounced on the balls of his feet. "Not at all unpleasant."

"Good, good," Abbie said absently as she finished tying his Windsor knot ("What's a Windsor?" he had asked perplexedly). Trust Jenny to come through with even her weirdest requests. Like a greatcoat and a blue pinstripe suit fit for a malnourished giant. "Now what the fuck am I gonna do with your hair?"

He vetoed cutting it— "I shall be as Samson; you shall not come near me with a scissors"—so she wound up just leaving it loose and roughing it up. She hoped his height and the rest of the get up would help get the point across.

Her own costume was much simpler. Slip into a leather jacket, pull her hair into a droopy top knot, and call it a day.

"But you aren't wearing a costume at all," Crane protested.

"Sure I am. Everybody knows the Woman Who Walked the Earth. Especially will once I pull out my crackerjack accent," she said in a purposefully awful English drawl.

"Are you meant to be French?"

She rolled her eyes and rummaged in a drawer. Two AAA batteries later they were in business. "Anybody asks you a question you don't understand, you just hit this button"—she tapped the side and the tapered head of the device flew open, revealing a glowing blue light— "and stare at 'em real hard until they walk away. Got it?"

He poked the head of the device mistrustfully. "I suppose. And my name again?"

"The Doctor."

"Doctor who?"

"Exactly. Let's roll."

* * *

><p><strong>airedmania<strong>**asked: Jenny's shopping with Abbie, looking for an outfit. Jenny had gotten a call from her old friend. And by friend I mean ex-gf she met in Mexico. She taught Jenny everything to know about tracking, particularly in the hills. Jenny is nervous (what to wear, what to say, what should I do when she gets that smirk that makes me go crazy) because Daniela is in town and wants to have dinner, "for...what is it este blanco say? 'Old Time Sake'" Yea, thats my prompt**

"This one." Abbie held up an A-line dress in frothy mint green. "Gorgeous color on you. Good length—" Jenny was already shaking her head. "What's wrong with it?"

"Too short, too tight, can't move in it." Jenny ticked the issues off on her fingers. "This is Daniela. The first date we ever went on, we wound up tracking a pack of ahuizotl through the Sonoran Desert. For three days. I have to be ready for anything."

Abbie hid her smile as she returned the dress to the rack. She'd never seen Jenny quite so flustered before, quite so self-conscious about what she wore. The invitation to go shopping had come as a surprise; the deep investment Jenny had in this expedition even moreso.

"What's your girl doing in Sleepy Hollow anyway?"

"She's not my girl," Jenny said quickly. "Unless Luke's your boy. We broke up."

"Point taken. Question still stands."

"Same reason anybody comes to Sleepy Hollow these days. World's ending and it's starting here." Jenny pulled a hideous mango bandage dress from the rack and threw it to the ground. "Which is why I'm stupid for worrying about this. I should be tracking down the Ring of Joseph, not fucking with my makeup."

Abbie bent and retrieved the dress. "Now stop that. It's not stupid. You aren't dead yet and neither is she." _Plus I'm glad to see you with practically _anyone _who isn't named Nick Hawley, _Abbie managed not to say. "Tell me about her. Maybe that'll give me a better idea of what constitutes proper date wear for her."

Jenny's eyelashes fluttered. "I was looking for a lead on the lost mine of Tayopa. Corbin needed some silver from there and only there. I didn't ask why. But I went into this bar in some no-name town on this high plateau in the Sierras and there she was. She had everybody there wrapped around her little finger. No one could take their eyes off her. Least of all me."

"So she's beautiful? Funny?"

"Beautiful, absolutely. This crazy thick hair and these…" Jenny raised her hands to her breasts, then glanced at her sister and let them fall with a cough. "Funny…she's more wry. She always has this kind of twisted smile on her face, so you can't tell if she's laughing at herself or at you. Usually it's both."

Abbie offered a navy blue dress with leather shoulder pads that jutted out like armor. Jenny wrinkled her nose; Abbie tucked it under her arm to try on herself. "So how'd you wind up tracking demon dogs in the middle of the desert?"

"She said they could smell silver. That if we could find them, we'd find the mine. Back then, I didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground. It was a miracle I'd made it as far as I did. But Daniela knew everything—how to sweep the ground behind you to cover your tracks, how to smell sulfur on the wind, what plants could keep you alive and which could kill your enemies. And she showed me all of it."

"She sounds pretty perfect for you." Abbie let the question dangle unspoken: _So why'd you break up_? She was curious to know, sure. But she and Jenny weren't at the place where she could ask that just yet. Hell, she hadn't known they were at the place where they went shopping together. But Jenny was always faster to forgive than Abbie expected. Than Abbie thought she deserved.

"Yeah. In a lot of ways she is. Was. But…" Jenny trailed off. She slipped a bracelet of fat chunks of unpolished amethyst around her wrist. It made her look dainty, almost frail.

Abbie touched the back of her sister's hand. "Hey. What were you wearing that first time you met Daniela?"

Jenny swept her hand to encompass her current outfit—cargo pants, Under Armour, a down vest, and probably about twenty pounds of weapons and whatsits that Abbie couldn't see. "About like this, I guess. Why?"

"Do you feel good in what you're wearing?"

"Yeah. I feel ready. I feel like me."

"Then you already look perfect."

Jenny stared down at herself, then at the endless piles of dresses and frills. "You don't think I'd look prettier if I put my hair down and wore something…I dunno…softer?"

_Nothing could be prettier than the look on your face when you talk about her. _"Soft's overrated. But if you're worried about it, here." Abbie plucked a pale purple silk flower from the accessories table and tucked it behind Jenny's ear. "If Mom were here, she'd say you look pretty as pie."

Jenny, her big-little sister, nearly knocked her over with the force of her hug. After a moment of surprise, Abbie squeezed her back with all her might.

* * *

><p><strong>jennonthego<strong>**asked: Abbie/Crane - "look up at the sky"**

The rain battered against her face. Her failure pounded inside her skull. She'd let it get away. _She'd let it get away. _And now who knew what that thing would do, how many people it would kill, what it would do to her town. All because she hadn't been strong enough, fast enough, smart enough. And they wouldn't have another shot at finding it until the next dark of the moon. An eternity.

It took everything she had not to just crumble to the ground and sink into the mud. Her sword trailed behind her, its tip ploughing a pathetic furrow in the soil. Her head hung low. All she could see were her feet, all she could think of was putting one in front of the other. Over and over and over again for the next 2,327 days.

"You mustn't blame yourself." Crane's voice was half-snatched away by the wind.

"Who should I blame then, huh? That poor dead kid?"

"The demon who killed her should bear that blood upon its head. Not you."

She started to shrug, but it was too much effort. Just one foot. Then the other. Over and over until Judgement Day.

The rain started to let up, but that was even worse. It became a pervasive mist that sank into her bones. Still they plodded along.

The squelching of Crane's boots stopped. Abbie didn't. He'd catch up.

"Lieutenant." She kept going. She wasn't in the mood for some big _Good Will Hunting _it's not your fault moment. She just wanted a shower and the nothingness of sleep.

But he wouldn't let it go. "Lieutenant, look up at the sky."

Her first instinct was to suspect the moon was crashing into the earth and it was goodnight everyone, but the hushed note of awe in his voice gave her an inkling of hope. She lifted her dripping head and cast her eyes to the skies.

The sky was filled with every color known to man. Some maybe unknown. The rainbow seemed miles wide, translucent and shimmering through the veil of rain. It arced off to the Hudson to the west, to the Hardscrabble Wilderness to the east. And it held all of Sleepy Hollow in its embrace.

"And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth," Crane said.

Abbie reached a hand up, and even though the swath of color was far overhead, her skin was dappled with light of every shade. She reached for Crane. Their fingers locked. They walked on with their heads held high.

* * *

><p><strong>veilsofgold<strong>**asked: SHRIEKS* Ok. I have had this prompt saved in case you did this :D Ichabod and Abbie going on a sleigh ride together at twilight. Because I am a sap and need some sweet dorky romance from Fichabod to show Abbie she is gloriously loved by him *_* Smut's good to XD YAYYYY**

"Come along, come along, only a bit farther."

"Your legs are longer. It's a lot farther for me," Abbie grumbled cheerfully. It actually wasn't too bad, as long as she stayed in his footsteps and let him break down the solid eleven inches of snow that mounded in sugary dunes. "Where are we even _going_? There's nothing out here."

"On the contrary!" he called over his shoulder, his cheeks red and chapped with chill. "There is a forest, lovely even in winter with its patina of snow. There are virgin meadows crossed with iced streams, bright red cardinals flitting about to lend a bit of color. And always, my darling—" he paused in his headlong bounding through the snow and twined an arm about her waist. "Always there is you and me. And wherever we are, there is certainly _something._"

There weren't too many people on the planet who could get away with a speech like that. But goddamn if Ichabod Crane wasn't one. She leaned up for a kiss, but he'd already seized her hand and started towing her along again. All she could do was laugh and stumblingly follow.

They took a wide turn around a stand of evergreens and there, like something out of a fucking Christmas card, was an honest to God one horse open sleigh. The dappled gray horse had red ribbons woven into its mane and—yep, there was a garland of jingle bells around its neck.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," Crane said, puffed and proud. "The stableman owed me a bit of a favor—won't get into it now, but suffice it to say equine exorcism is _not_terribly easy." He was halfway to the sleigh before he realized she wasn't following. "Aren't you coming?" And at once the pride was gone, washed away by a little-boy shyness that always surprised Abbie when it popped up.

"I…" Shit. He didn't know. And how was she supposed to tell him? Abbie had decapitated demons, stabbed Pied Pipers, and shot God knows how many bullets at ghosts. But here she was, afraid of a stupid horse wearing stupid bells with stupid holly tied to its stupid tail.

She couldn't say when it started. She'd never thought about horses for most of her life; they were for rich people, and she wasn't one of them. But then the night at the stables, the screams of the horses mixing with the smell of Corbin's blood and the sulfur of that glowing ax. And then the Horseman's mount, with those red buggy eyes…

Hoof beats meant death.

Crane was back at her side. "You look stricken. What ever's the matter?" He took one of her hands between both of his mittens and chaffed it, as though the cold were the issue.

It was just a horse. And she wasn't going to be riding it, she was just going to be sitting behind it. Everything was fine. There was no ax, no horseman, no heads. She forced a smile, but they both knew it for the lie it was. "Just surprised is all. Let's go."

Still frowning down at her, Crane tucked her arm beneath his and led her toward the sleigh. Abbie wished she could appreciate it properly, because oh, it was as pretty as any car she'd ever fallen in love with, all sleek lines and gentle curlicues. If it had been powered by a motor instead of a mammal, it would've been perfect.

Abbie had hoped that they'd climb right into the sleigh and go off and do whatever you do in a sleigh (laughing all the way, she guessed?). But Crane led her toward the horse. He stopped just out of kicking range, though whether that was because of her nerves or it was just general horse etiquette, she didn't know.

"This sweet little mare is Holly," he said.

"Her name is not fucking Holly."

"Hush. For this evening, it is." He dug clumsily in his breast pocket and produced a crumbly sugar cube. Abbie braced herself for him to offer it to her, but he didn't. He stepped up to "Holly" and held the cube flat on his palm. The horse sniffed it, her nostrils flaring wide. And then with blocky teeth that could take his hand clean off, she lapped it up and snuffled for more.

Crane glanced at her far too casually. "Care to make your introductions to Miss Holly?"

"I'm good."

"Very well." He handed her up into the sleigh. A thick pile of blankets lay on the floor, and she gratefully reached for them. She yelped in surprise as she found them already warm—two bricks wrapped in flannel lay beneath them, warming her chilled feet.

"You thought of everything."

"Perhaps not everything," Ichabod said in a low voice. "We needn't do this. Speak the word and we shall happily return to the cabin afoot."

No. No. There was too much to be afraid of without adding this to the list. "Just tell me you're a better with reins than you are a wheel."

"I am assuredly much _slower_," he promised. He took a great deal of time settling the blankets over her, tucking and smoothing until she felt like a burrito. When he produced a flask of mulled wine, he had to hold it to her lips to drink, and she laughed and spluttered spicy droplets.

And then they were off. It was smooth like ice skating. Even the sound was similar, the _whisk whisk whisk _of blades on cold. Holly's hooves were dampened by the snow, taking away that dreaded clip-clop. And the bells rang out brightly and Ichabod's arm wrapped around her and slowly, surrounded by so much warmth and cheer, she relaxed. She was safe.

They sang, teaching each other new carols to the rhythm of the bells. Crane offered her the reins, but she just tucked herself up against him and shook her head. He told her of snowball fights at Cambridge, of ancient halls filled with mistletoe and candlelight. She told him of stringing popcorn for their tree and eating most of it, of the doll her mother made her with rags and ferocious love.

The sky turned to silver and gold. Then endless inky blue. The temperature dipped and the bricks at their feet grew cold, but Ichabod dropped to his knees beneath the blankets and helped her generate a different kind of warmth.

When at last they drew back in front of the stables, Abbie was languid and cozy inside and out. After Crane had unhitched the mare, she managed a gentle pat on its neck. The horse didn't seem to notice or care, but Crane did. "Riding next time, shall we?"

"Fuck you," she said with a smile.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: I loved Henry and Abbie's interactions in She and He and I would love to see you maybe rewrite the fall finale around those two rather than Crane Family Drama. But really whatever floats your boat. The further from canon the better actually. *shrugs* I'm just not ready to let go of all my Henry - Abbie arch-nemesis feels yet. Extra points if it freaks Ichabod out.<strong>

"I always knew it would be us, in the end." Henry stood stock-still, looking like nothing so much as the guy in the grocery store who wanted to sell you a newspaper subscription and tell you all about his lumbago.

"I'm curious," Abbie said, twirling the Not-Sword of Methuselah. "Have you spent the last thirteen years watching B-movies? Because you have really nailed the villainous dialogue."

"Scoff all you like, Abigail. How could our destinies not be entwined, you and I?" He was still just standing there running his mouth. It was enough to make Abbie wish she _had_the real sword instead of this cheap knock-off. But would it still work? Could she just run him through, puncture a lung, let the old man drown right here on dry land? "I who loved Grace Dixon and I who reduced her to ashes? And you who freed me from my grave? We who have suffered at the hands of my father?"

"Always comes back to the daddy issues with you. You know, my dad wasn't around either but you don't see me heralding in the apocalypse." Crane was supposed to be here by now. Everyone was supposed to be here by now. How long could she keep this up?

He began to circle her with long, smooth steps. She turned to keep him in her sights and choked up on the sword. She was not going to play this game. Crane or no Crane, if he started twitching his hands and casting magic, she was going to see what this fake-ass sword could do. "But that's just it, Abigail. We are two sides of the same coin, you and I. I have chosen to fight back against those who have wronged me. I have chosen the cause of justice and righteousness. You have chosen to become the lapdog to those who hurt you, who ignore you, who send the smallest among them to fight battles which are rightfully theirs."

"You trying to make me hate you? Because I have to break it to you, you're a little late for that. I tend to get a little testy when people start murdering my neighbors. And my…" She would not let her voice break. _She would not let her voice break. _Not in front of him. "…my captain."

But he smiled, big and white and _my, Grandfather, how many teeth you have. _"And that is why I like you, Abigail."

"Stop saying my name."

"You are not like him, that father-mine. His compassion blinds him, makes him weak, makes him forget who he is and what he must do. But not you. Not you." He stopped in front of her, hands clasped behind his back in a freaky echo of his father. "You are a cold, hard thing, aren't you? The world has made you so. But cold-forged iron is the strongest of all. Emotion does not blind you. Empathy does not move you. You are a true soldier. And in you lies such terrible greatness." He extended his hand, skin bunched and wrinkled like a wadded fast food wrapper. "Break free, Abigail. Fight your own war, not theirs."

Abbie laughed. Even to her own ears it sounded insane, the kind of sound that wafted through the halls of Tarrytown. It was the laugh of a woman with nothing to lose. Because this fucker. This _fucker _standing here psychoanalyzing her, thinking he could turn her into a weapon like this sword, who thought she was clean and empty and another tool to be used. This shitstain who couldn't understand that Jesus, she felt _everything, _felt it so much that sometimes she struggled to stand upright under its ferocious gravity. That she could fight and make the hard decisions because of her love, not in spite of it. That her compassion was different than Crane's, less personal, but no less real. It was the same sort of compassion that led Grace Dixon to lay down her life for an orphan boy: It didn't matter who the child was. It mattered that loving him was the right thing to do.

It didn't matter that the world had wronged Abbie. It mattered that it was her world.

"This is my war, _Jeremy._" His eyes narrowed. His smile dribbled away. "They want to fight it too, that's cool. But this is my war. And this is for Grace." She lunged forward with the fake sword, knowing she'd never make it in time. And sure enough, vines grew up around her before she could take a full step, constricting her like Katrina's corset.

And the plan unraveled like linen around them, until they were all weak and captive. And in the end, it was not compassion that damned them, but blind affection. For the truly compassionate know that to do the right thing is to do the hard thing, and that sometimes mercy comes at the point of a sword. But Ichabod Crane looked into his son's eyes and saw only himself.

And so the soldiers fell, one by one.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: How about Ichabod seeking comfort in Abbie's arms after he walks in on Abraham eating Katrina's 2 century old pussy?<strong>

**aryalis said:**

**the quiet after the storm… or what happened when Katrina left Ichabod, and he know he did not do so bad because Abbie is here with him… perhaps with a first kiss ! Thanks a lot**

A single knock at the door. Crane on her doorstep, shoulders stooped low, so low they were almost the same height. Eyes a weird shade of pink, like those rabbits they keep in labs.

"Katrina," he said.

It was the only word he'd spoken.

Ichabod Crane. Had no words. Yeah, she was worried.

The witch wasn't dead, she was pretty sure. Then there would have been tears, rage, calls for revenge. They would have saddled up and headed out. But this Crane was inert, a slumped doll on her couch staring at nothing, staring at centuries of memories and an instant of betrayal.

Abbie fussed and fluttered around him. She brought him things—Kleenex and a blanket and a beer which dangled untasted from his fingers. But then there was nothing left to bring, and all that was left was a broken man. And her.

She sat at the far end of the couch from him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head.

"Okay." Should she talk about it? Should she tell him that it was okay? That he was better off without her? That she was sorry? No. She wasn't going to say that last bit. She wasn't sorry. She was relieved that that game was finally over, that they could all stop pretending that love could conquer all. Or, hell, that the two of them even loved each other.

But she was sorry he was hurt. She was sorry for the raspy hitch in his breathing, for the way he ran his hands through his hair and pulled and pulled until she winced on his behalf. And she was sorry she couldn't fix it.

She slid half a cushion closer. "I'm here."

As soon as she said it, she regretted it. "I'm here"? What could that do? How could that help in the face of whatever this was, this hollowing grief that was crushing him into the ground? But she didn't have the right words to give. All she had was herself.

His head fell forward into his hands. And this time she didn't think, she just moved. She bridged the space between them and draped herself over his back. Let her heart beat against his body, let her breath whistle against his neck, let her weight hold him and tether him here to this moment, this place, this time.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't acknowledge her. After a while, his shoulders shook. She made sounds that weren't words—shushing, lowing, humming. She pressed her lips against the nape of his neck. She gave him permission to weep.

She held him.

After a million heartbeats, a thousand tears, he straightened and she slipped away like she'd never been there at all.

His lips shaped an apology, but she shook her head. "Don't. Not for this."

His Adam's apple bobbed. She cleared her throat. "Your beer's gone warm. Let me get you something stronger."

His fingers encircled her wrist. They both stared at the union of their flesh, and he let his fingers bleed away. But she sank back down.

They sat with knees touching until at last he spoke. And at last she listened. And at last he raged. And at last she made him laugh through his tears. And at last they both slept, heads tilted together.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: crane discovering how beautiful Abbie's voice is maybe in a club with the rest of the gang<strong>

"We've been here a full hour and you haven't once ranted about how this is a sign of the decline of Western civilization." Miss Jenny plucked an alarmingly red cherry from the bottom of her glass and pulled it from its stem.

"On the contrary, I am heartened to see the tradition of live singing continues even into the age of instant music. Whether 'round a campfire or in a tavern not so unlike this, there was always a song to be had." He would not tell her that in most cases, they had been bawdy ditties that went far beyond some of the explicit songs he heard on the lieutenant's _radio,_or else political messages set to music. He hated to shatter their pristine views of the past. "And besides, I had no notion Captain Irving had such a fine voice."

"They make it easy when they give me James Brown. Anybody can look cool doing Brown." Irving slid back into his chair and nodded at Ichabod. "'cept you, maybe."

Considering the dance formations and vocal rasp the captain had employed during his song, Ichabod was inclined to agree. He would have looked like a flailing stork. "Will you be taking to the stage as well, Miss Jenny?"

"Nah. Not really a spotlight kinda girl. But, oh, shh. Abbie's up."

Miss Mills stepped onto the small dais in the corner of the crowded bar. The master of ceremonies for the evening presented her with a large bowl filled with scraps of paper. This was "retro" night, he had been informed, and all songs were drawn from the ancient annals of musical history: all were at least thirty years old. Of course, they was all new to him. To add spice to the evening, songs were assigned at random, something he was told was unusual.

Miss Mills flashed the audience a shy grin and slipped her hand into the bowl. Once, twice, she swirled, and finally withdrew a scrap of paper. She peeked down at it and groaned. "Aw, c'mon. Can I get a do-over? This song is corny as hell."

"Nope! Queue it up, Bob. Number five-five-seven-four."

"Corny?" Ichabod asked.

"Cheesy. That probably doesn't help," Miss Jenny said. "Uh…Help me out, Frank."

"Overly sentimental. Now this, I can't wait to see."

Certainly no one could ever accuse Miss Mills of a surfeit of sentimentality. Ichabod's curiosity, already aroused, climbed higher. On numerous occasions he had heard the lieutenant hum quietly to herself as she studied a particularly dense text, or watched her lips move as she mouthed along to songs on the radio. But to hear her sing in full voice, before such a crowd? A rare treat indeed.

She had to adjust the _microphone _lower. Much lower. She cupped one hand gently around the amplification device, swaying gently as the phantom orchestra began with the song's preamble. It was simple compared to many of the accompaniments he had heard thus far—a piano, a gently _tsking_drum. As she inhaled, a hushed choir fell in behind her.

"Wise men say only fools rush in. But I can't help falling in love with you."

How could such a small form produce such a full, rich sound? She approached each note languidly, giving them their full measure, never rushing, letting the note hang heavily in the air before moving on to the next.

"Shall I stay? Would it be a sin if I can't help falling in love with you?"

Only those who knew her intimately would notice the faintest quaver in her voice, the soft tremble of her hands as she brushed a wave of hair from her face. She did not look at the audience, but gazed over their heads like a queen imperial.

"Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things are meant to be."

Her voice soared into a higher register, plaintive and sweet. She stretched her arm out across the crowd.

"So take my hand. Take my whole life, too. For I can't help falling in love with you."

For the briefest flicker, their eyes met and a crackle of heat lightning burst between them. But then she flinched and was gone, staring through him once more. Only her voice remained, repeating the second verse, softly, plaintively, mournfully.

"Thank you," she said at last, no longer a bewitching siren but the lieutenant once more. A smattering of cheerful applause rose up; Ichabod joined as best he could, but still felt a-dazed.

"That's another reason I don't sing. Abbie sucked up all the talent," Miss Jenny said. He could only nod.

"I need a _drink._" The lieutenant hopped back onto her tall stool and waved a hand for the servant.

"You earned it. Good job, Mills," Irving said.

"Thanks. Wish it had been a different song though."

"Crane seemed to think it was pretty okay," Miss Jenny said slyly.

"Oh yeah?" Miss Mills arched a brow at him. "Was it okay?"

He searched her face, hunting for any hint of that electricity which had thundered through them. But though flush with success and nerves, there was none of that raw, crackling need. Just a carefully casual question between two carefully casual people.

"It was exquisite," was all he could say, his own voice rough and low.

* * *

><p><strong>sneetchstar<strong>**asked: Okay, I've got one for you: Abbie discovers Ichabod's beard is soft, not scratchy. She can make this discovery any way you wish. :)**

The lieutenant was light as a bundle of feathers in his arms. She was also roaringly drunk.

"This is stupid. This is _stupid. _Let me walk."

"Lieutenant, you can see the cars racing by. You were fair walking in circles outside the bar, and I fear what should happen should you stray toward the street." In addition, she'd been tottering like green seaman on his first voyage. But she would not thank him for mentioning that. "It's just a bit farther and you may walk about your home as freely as you like."

"This is stupid," she murmured again, her head falling against his shoulder, his cheek. All at once, she jerked upright in his arms. "Whoa. It's so soft."

"I beg your pardon?" He was beginning to wish he, too, had imbibed a bit more this evening. It might make her somewhat more comprehensible.

"Your beard. I thought it'd be scratchy, but nope. It's like…" She smashed her palm against his cheek none too gently. "It's like petting a wiener dog."

"A _what_?" His words rippled with laughter. He shifted his grip upon her hips to bear her a bit more comfortably.

"The dogs. The long skinny ones with the silky fur. They're so soft. Like you." Her fingers stroked gently through his whiskers now, first ruffling the hair, then making it lie flat once more.

"A badger dog," he realized. "Nasty, vicious things, you know." He gave a mocking growl and nipped at her fingers. Good Lord, how much _had _he drunk? But her shriek of laughter melted any traces of chagrin.

She gave a sharp tug on his hair. "Bad dog."

"I did try to warn you." His tongue darted against her hand in a quick, conciliatory lick like the faithful hound he was. She tasted of limes and salt.

She laughed again and fell back to petting his cheek, slowly and rhythmically, her head heavy against his shoulder. His ears flamed; his skin sparked. "Good Crane. Good puppy. Good Crane." She ceased her caresses only when he slipped her into bed. "Good Crane. Thanks."

He brushed his own fingers against her cheek, grazing along the bone, lingering at the delicate skin beneath her eye, straying toward her lips but stopping just shy. Soft. So terribly, terribly soft. "Always, Abbie."

Neither one of them spoke of that night.

* * *

><p><strong>thebister<strong>**asked: For your fic giveaway, could you possibly write a prompt where Abbie finally snaps on Ichabod, because of him not only thrusting his "powerful" wife and "no-wrong-doing" son on her AGAIN, but also the disrespect he has shown her? I kept imagining this happening, and I can see this resulting from him trying to do one of their "fist bumps."**

**nerdygrlwonder: Ohh I love a good prompt fest! Hmm….how about Abbie cluing Crane in on how shady, untrustworthy and weak ass Katrina is?**

Ichabod was weary but elated. The fight had been long, but they had prevailed. Another nail in the coffin of evil and another battle won. Now all that was left to do was to put their weapons away and enjoy the glow of victory.

"Very prettily done, Lieutenant," he said as they strode into the armory, jangling with the weight of battle axes and an odd belt of ammunition Miss Mills wore slung 'round her shoulders. "Couldn't have gone better, don't you think?"

"Crane, my leg was literally inside a slug monster. To the hip. There is slime up in my underwear right now." He glanced down at her dripping trouser leg and shuddered. "It almost ate me because you couldn't follow the plan we agreed to."

"There were…aspects of the evening which could have gone better," he permitted. "Yet we prevailed in the end." He lay down his ax and extended his clenched fist with a smile.

Abbie stared at his offered hand for a long moment. Then she snorted and turned away.

That had never happened before. He trailed after her as she headed for the weapons cabinet. "Miss Mills?"

"A fucking fist bump can't make everything right. I almost died because you listened to Katrina instead of me. I'm not exchanging an expression of teamwork and elation when you're pulling that kind of bullshit."

"Katrina's plan would have worked, if only her magic had not been diminished by the monster's density. How was she to know the thing was nearly entirely made of water?"

"Stop." The explosive final consonant ricocheted off the walls. "Is Katrina a Witness?"

"She is a powerful witch."

"Have you been demoted? Did God say something to you? 'Cause He hasn't said anything to me. Have _I_been demoted?"

"I was merely suggesting we consider—"

"_Have I been demoted_?" Her words shimmered with emotion. She flung the band of ammunition into the cabinet and whirled to face him. Her eyes were wide and trembling, her hands both in the fist bump position at her side. She was a wire pulled taut, caught at the moment just before the breaking point.

"Of course you haven't," he said in the gentlest voice he could muster. "And I feared for your life with great mortal terror. I never would have wished that misfortune upon you, not for an instant. You are my partner and ever shall be. But just as we listen to counsel from Miss Jenny or Mr. Ash, so we can profit from Katrina's expertise."

"Difference between those two and Katrina is that they've never let us down. Those two never need saving. And those two don't get a fucking _vote._"

Ichabod couldn't do this. Not again. He was fighting wars on all fronts and he could not bear to make the lieutenant his enemy once more. "We are both weary. I believe it is best we say goodnight. We can discuss this in the morning with fresh minds and clearer hearts."

"You say goodnight and I say goodbye." _Twang. _He could fair hear the wire snap as she slumped into a chair. Despite her words, the throbbing anger ebbed away. Her words became cold, clinical. "I will do this alone before I do this with a partner who doesn't trust me."

How could she think that of him? Time and again he had reassured her that he placed all his faith in her, that her company was of the highest value, that they were shield mates in this bloody war unto the gates of hell. Her lack of reciprocation caused a dull throb in his chest. "I trust you. Beyond all doubt I—"

"No. You don't. You _say_you do. But when push comes to shove, even if you agree to my plan, you'll still run off in the heat of the moment because Katrina tells you to, or because you want to have some big heroic moment of self-sacrifice."

His head buzzed with mingled anger and pain. "You are the one who spoke of sacrifice, madam. Not I. I believed that my death at Henry's hand could result in a better world."

"A better world that left me all alone?" Her voice broke and with it, his heart. He'd had no inkling of what his absence would have such consequences for her. "Our lives are penny stakes at this point. We're going to die eventually. For now, living is the hardest thing. Fighting is the hardest thing."

"I didn't think…I never intended to hurt you." How long had this resentment been simmering just beneath the surface? How had he never seen it?

Because he had not wished to. Because it was easier to agree with his wife than to fight for his partner.

"That's exactly it. You didn't think. You were wrapped up in your own family drama and you lost sight of the whole goddamn world, nevermind little old fucking me." She jammed the heels of her hands into her eyes but could not entirely hide the tears that shimmered there.

Even now, he could not let the slight against Henry go unremarked. "Wouldn't you do anything for your sister? Or to have your mother back? Anything at all to redeem them?"

The tears dried with shocking speed. "Not if they were _murderers._Because that is what Henry is. He's directly responsible for what, five, six deaths that we know of? Indirectly responsible for God knows how many more? Yeah, if Jenny were off the grid like that, I'd do what needed to be done. Because keeping the peace is my job. And I thought it was yours, too."

Redemption, Katrina had pleaded. A fresh start, a new chance for their wayward boy. But that boy with the florist's shop and the bomb, there was no second chance for him. That girl the succubus had drained to the dregs, she would never be redeemed. All because he had suffered his son to live. All because he listened to compassion instead of reason.

"I'm sorry," he said faintly.

"I trust _you_, Ichabod. I guess I'm just that stupid, or maybe it's God's doing. I don't know. But right now, I don't believe a single word you say. You're sorry? Fucking _act like it._" She snatched up her jacket and jerked her arms into the sleeves with such force, he feared a dislocation. "I'll see you tomorrow. Pick a side."

For long, dark hours, he sat in the armory and attempted to determine who precisely he was. There was no room for him to be soldier and husband at the same time. Only one identity could survive if the world was to. If their friendship was to.

That night, he buried one half of himself and looked toward the future with hard eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Anonymous asked: *SQUEE* a love spell hits sleepy hollow.<strong>

"It's gotta be because we're Witnesses. Maybe it puts us in some kinda protective bubble."

"That exalted status has offered no protection to this point."

"We're still alive, aren't we? Not everybody can say the same."

Crane flinched. Jenny sighed. The day had been too long for bickering now. But the Chosen of God couldn't stop arguing about why the love mania that had swept Sleepy Hollow had left them untouched.

It had been pretty nuts. One minute everyone was going about their day. The next, they were…it was weird. It wasn't a lust spell. Totally different from a sex demon. So yeah, some people had immediately taken to boinking in the streets, but there had been a lot of people walking hand in hand. Sitting in the town square staring soulfully into each other's eyes. Terrible poetry and love songs warbled beneath open windows.

The entire town became a high school, basically.

Jenny hadn't been immune, but she didn't really mind. The blonde haired, blue eyed accountant she'd loved for four hours and forty-seven minutes had been a good way to get Hawley out of her system once and for all. Hell, at the end of it, Greta had even given Jenny her number. And Jenny intended to call. Score one for love spells.

"Perhaps it has to do with our astrological charts. Not everyone was affected. Perhaps it has to do with the conjunction of Venus at birth." Crane poked his head up from the back seat. "Miss Jenny, what is your place, time, and date of birth?"

"Mars was in conjunction." She elbowed him back.

"Who believes in astrology anyway?"

"I'll have you know…"

Whenever Crane started sentences like that, Jenny tuned right the fuck out. Anyway, Jenny came up from between Greta's thighs long enough to track down an amulet for them. Now Reyes was trying to play it off as "something in the water." No, seriously. Was claiming some experimental chemical got dumped in the river up at Watervilet and flowed down here. Jenny had to admire the woman's stones and her denial.

"Look, it doesn't matter why. It's over, and chances are slim we'll face another nymph anyway. If we do, we'll figure it out then. Onto the next thing," Abbie said with the purse of her lips that meant this matter was closed and done.

"Still. I hate to leave any mystery yet unsolved. I shall continue to ponder it."

Were they really this stupid? Well, yes. They were. But it was still kinda shocking that they couldn't see it.

Part of her wanted to blurt it out. But nah. Better if they came around on their own.

Jenny parked in front of the armory. "See you guys in a couple days. I'm gonna go talk to my guy about that finger bone of Saint Peter. That would come in seriously handy."

"Thanks Jenny." Abbie squeezed her shoulder—Jesus, she must've been more worried than Jenny knew—and slid out of the car.

"My thanks, as ever, for your quick wit and excellent connections."

Jenny watched them in the rear view mirror as she drove away. Their breath kicked up fountains of steam that mingled together in the cold air. Crane bent down to speak something directly into her ear, and Abbie threw back her head and laughed.

Idiots. The only people who aren't affected by love spells are people who are already in love.

They'd figure it out sooner or later.

* * *

><p><strong>shaloved30 asked: Can you write a follow up of sorts of Jenny and Greta? I don't have specifics but maybe there's some sisterly teasing from Abbie this time? Maybe Greta can have some info they can use? I really enjoy bi Jenny as a personal headcanon and thank you for sharing that with us as well.<strong>

Jenny fidgeted with her seatbelt. "Remember, no supernatural stuff. I don't want Greta caught up in this. If there was anyone else we could turn to—"

"Jenny. We're asking her to go through some funky back taxes, not swing a sword. I think she'll be okay."

Yeah _but_. People always had a way of getting mixed up in the supernatural. Even if it seemed innocent, even if it seemed safe, somehow it never quite was. And even though she'd met Greta during a goddamn love spell, that didn't mean Greta understood Jenny's world. Which was how she liked it. For the first time since she was a kid, Jenny had one person who had no idea what four white trees meant.

"It's just this once. I know she's a really good accountant – I don't know what makes an accountant good, math, I guess? – but this is the only time we'll use her. The _only _time. And you'll get the department to pay her. Right?"

"Yes of _course._" Abbie made the turn into the beige little office park where Greta had her equally beige little office. "I didn't realize how much you liked her."

Jenny had no idea how she'd wound up with someone so _normal, _but Greta didn't make her feel normal. She made her feel extraordinary. Greta loved her stories about traveling the world – heavily sanitized, of course – and things that were old hat somehow became new again for Jenny. But it wasn't all one-sided. Greta was fascinating. She looked at the word in this totally different way, this way that was smart and thoughtful and untouched by darkness. Jenny loved nothing more than to lay her head on Greta's stupendous breasts and talk about nothing. About everything.

And her hands, Jesus Christ, the things she could do with her fingers should be illegal.

"Yeah. Well. I just want to make sure she's treated right. And that she's safe."

"I promise no one will ever know she was involved in this." Abbie threw the car into park and squeezed Jenny's knee. "I'm happy for you. And I can't wait to meet her."

Jenny cleared her throat. "I'd like to see you happy, too."

"Yeah, well, the only guys I ever see are Crane and Irving, so yeah, no dice." She wrinkled her nose at the romantic idea of either man, even though anyone with half a brain could see that glitter exploded out of her eyes any time she looked at her partner.

Dumbasses. The both of them.

"There could be dice. There _are _dice."

Abbie blinked in confusion. "What?"

Jenny sighed. "Nothing. Nevermind. Let's get this over with."

They slid out of the car and Abbie draped her arm over her sister's shoulders. "Do I need to have the talk with her? About how I'll break her kneecaps if the ever hurts my baby sister? Because I will have that talk with pleasure."

Jenny laughed and shoved her sister away. Something felt weird in her chest, some rising lightness that was familiar but dusty.

Oh. Right. This was what happiness felt like.

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><p><strong>Anonymous asked: OMG I just wanted to say THANK YOU FOR THIS! Could you write a fic where Abbie and Ichabod have a fall out cos' he betrayed her again this mid-season fianale. And somehow he makes a couple of attempts to win her friendship back eg buy flowers, write letters(trust you to think of something!) but then he does something unexpected(I dunno) and she finally accepts his apology. Thank you! :*<strong>

The first time he made to apologize, she nodded. Her eyes were distant and her arms were curled about her own shoulders in a protective embrace. "Okay," was all she said. "Okay."

And indeed, they were "okay." Their work continued, smoothed by Katrina's absence. But they were not _them. _The distance he had seen in her eyes spooled out between them until they were less partners and more allies, separate agents working to the same ends with divergent methods. No longer could his antics elicit an indulgent laugh. No more did they bow their heads together over a container of cold fried rice and quibble over whose "fortune" was most fortuitous. And when her heart was at its weariest, her hands remained stuffed in her pockets instead of searching for his.

He took to pen and paper to untangle his thoughts, to give him the time and focus he needed to select the proper words to heal this rift. He drafted and redrafted the missive until the mounds of paper collected about him like snow. He left the letter in her mailbox. The next day, it was lying atop a pile of his research at the archives, opened but without remark.

He rambled the countryside (and consulted a florist) to construct a bouquet. A heaping abundance of fragrant purple hyacinth formed the bed of his apology, studded through with mugwort for the bitterness of her absence, yellow-bright lily of the Incas for devotion, and bulbous amaranth for the unchanging nature of his regard. In the center, a single red camellia assured her that his fate was, indeed, in her hands.

She placed the flowers in a vase in the archive. They soon withered and died.

Again and again he beat himself against the rocks of her cool contempt. Words, gifts, vows, all made her retreat ever further, leaving him stranded in a lonely sea.

Until he turned to other words. Words like, "yes, you're right." And, "your plan is sound. I shall follow where you lead." And, "I am unsure, but I trust you."

Until he swallowed his own words and listened. Until he asked how she was feeling instead of telling her. Her expression came in fits and starts and never lasted long. But when it came, he learned that to sit in silent solidarity can mean more than all the flowers and all the speeches in all the world.

Ichabod strove to become a man who fulfilled his word instead of merely one who gave it. Until one day, when they were redolent with sweat and unmentionables from a _rugaru,_she threw her arms around him for no reason at all that he could discern.

"God, I missed you."

"As have I," he murmured into her hair.

**Anonymous asked: Yeey! Here's my fic prompt :) - Ichabod kisses Abbie for the first time and can't seem to stop himself due to her strawberry-flavoured glossed lips and Abbie has to literally shove him away so she can get some air. Thank you. so. much!**

She tasted of the first flush of spring.

His tongue darted out.

She tasted of clotted cream and milky tea and quiet afternoons.

His lips roamed, leaving no bit of her unsampled.

She tasted of bursting ripeness collected on sticky fingers, sucked clean one by one.

His knees went to jelly as she rasped out a muffled moan.

She tasted of _strawberries._

"Jesus. It's like you're trying to eat me up."

His response required no words.

**nerdygrlwonder****asked: Oh and another one! Crane and Abbie's awkward first date!? I especially need that one ;-)**

Ichabod was determined to woo Miss Mills as a proper woman of the twenty-first century. They had been…something more than partners for some time now, sharing beds and bodies and what glimpses of heart as the lieutenant had been willing to reveal. But she deserved more. She deserved courtship and romance and an ardent suitor.

He researched the matter thoroughly before daring to ask her on a _date_. First he had sought Miss Jenny's advice, but she had been unable to stop laughing long enough to answer him. He consulted instead with several officers at the sheriff's department, who counseled dinner and a movie. He sought knowledge from a book procured from the library, _A Modern Gentleman's Guide to Dating. _Oddly, the bulk of the tome focused on how to regain passage to a lady's good graces once they'd been lost. Passing strange, indeed.

Then he gathered his courage and asked the lieutenant if she would join him for dinner.

"Yeah, I'm starving. But not Szechuan chicken again. All that sodium is gonna kill you."

"Ah. Forgive me. I did not mean this evening. Tomorrow. A proper meal, at a proper table. Chez Maurice. I've made reservations for seven of the clock, if that will serve."

Her face at once became canny and closed. "What're you doing, Crane?"

"Please."

She rubbed her forehead. "Seven it is."

The chairs at Chez Maurice were instruments of torture. His rump ached. His eyes ached from squinting in the dim light. But those discomforts were dwarfed in light of the aching discomfort stretching between the two of them.

Since the day they had met, words flowed freely between the Witnesses. Taunts, jests, declarations of affection, they knew no impediment. Yet here, in the exquisitely hushed and crumb-scraped restaurant, their words grew stilted.

"How is your repast?" he asked. As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he'd asked the same question already.

"Small. And fussy." She poked aside a fuzzy weed that had been placed atop her sliver of beef.

"My apologies. I was assured this was the finest restaurant in Tarrytown." He'd scraped together his salary from a week of tutoring students in their stuttered Latin and frozen French to afford this. And, examining the prices more closely, he still feared he would not have enough for an adequate _tip._

She let her fork fall from her fingers. "Crane. Why're we doing this?"

Crane sipped at the broth that surrounded his trout. It tasted like unwashed tomatoes. "I was told this is what courtship looks like now. That this is how suitors show their beloved that they care."

"Did you really think I didn't know you cared?"

"There are times when it is difficult to say." Often, he could read her heart as if the words were inscribed upon her face. But there were those moments when she looked at him and he did not know if he was merely a body, merely a burden, merely a matter of circumstance.

"I know." She reached out and took his hand, sweeping what the menu had described as an artisanal hand-rolled yeast-leavened potato-horseradish scone to the floor. "This isn't us. This isn't who I want us to be." Her thumb stroked across the back of his hand. He licked his suddenly dry lips. "If you were wooing me—as Ichabod Crane, not this twenty-first century douchebag—how would you do it?"

"I would invite you on a walk beside the river," he said at once. "We would ramble through the dark in companionable silence. We would sit together in the soft grass and listen to the cry of the owl, to our own beating hearts. And when I could not bear it a moment longer, I would tell you that you are more precious than each and every star burning above our heads, that I would snuff each one dead and cold to purchase but a moment of your happiness."

"That got a little intense there at the end." He laughed. She smirked. "But let's go do it. Fuck this. Fuck what we're supposed to do. Let's just be us."

And all was exactly as he'd said. Though perhaps he hadn't predicted quite how soft that grass would feel against his bare back, or just how the starlight would shine upon her breast.

**darlablovesichabbie****asked: Here's my prompt. Abbie and Ichabod are living together in the cabin. The washing machine that was there finally died and Abbie decides that it's time to take Ichabod to the laundromat for the first time. Not only is Ichabod outraged at the thought of sharing machines with strangers, and the idea of putting money in the machines to get them to work, but half the washers and dryers are out of service.**

Crane had been weirdly excited about going to the laundromat. Couldn't stop saying the word: Laundromat. Laundr_o_mat. Laundro_mat._He'd praised the idea of a communal laundering space, calling it a clever investment and a wise use of resources.

Then he saw the Sudz n Tan. Or as the neon sign said would have it, the Su z n Ta.

It was…well, it was your basic laundromat. It stood in a drab strip mall, flanked by a Chinese restaurant and a Christian bookstore Abbie was 87 percent sure was a drug front. From the outside, the windows were foggy with condensation. And there was that weird laundromat smell, like wet dog and lavender, with just a hint of coconut oil.

"This is the laundromat?" he asked limply.

"Yup." Abbie didn't even bother to hide her grin.

They wrestled their overflowing laundry bags through the door. It was pretty quiet for this time of the evening. Only two screaming kids were playing demolition derby with the laundry carts, and only three already wrinkled co-eds were in line for the tanning bed.

Good. Should be easy to get a machine.

"I'm gonna get some quarters. Start sorting. Three machines—one for whites, one for colors, one for delicates. Make sure the light's on before you start dumping stuff in. Otherwise we'll have to take it out."

It took a few tries to get the change machine to accept her $5, but when she got back, Crane hadn't even started sorting. He was staring into a machine like he was gazing into the mouth of hell.

"You cannot be serious. You cannot mean to entrust your garments—_my _garments!—to such a device."

"Oh, well not _that _one. It's got gum all in it." She hoped it was gum, anyway. "Let's find another."

"Perhaps this was a poor idea. Perhaps we should simply launder the clothes ourselves. We have a perfectly operable sink—"

Abbie brushed by him and began dumping t-shirts into a gum-free machine. "You wanna wash your drawers in the sink, you knock yourself out." After a minute, Crane joined in, dropping shirts and "smallclothes" into the machine with the tips of his fingers as if they were already infected.

He liked putting the coins into the machine though, listening to them roll down the chute. He seemed so childlike, until you realized he was sketching a schematic of the mechanism in his mind, trying to understand its inner workings with sound alone.

Abbie picked up a magazine to pass the time. Crane wandered over to the tanning bed, spoke briefly with one of the women there, and bounded back to Abbie. "_That _is the purpose of the sunlamps we used against the Horseman?" he asked in a stage whisper. "To artificially scorch the skin? In my day ladies used umbrellas to shield even the slightest drop of sunlight. Yet now—"

"Don't look at me, I don't tan. But let's be real, you guys used _arsenic _to stay pasty, too, so let's not talk about how awesome and smart people were in your day."

Ichabod leaned over her, hands braced on the arms of her chair. "How right you are." She quirked a brow. Usually he wasn't big on PDA—she would kiss him just to watch him blush—but now his lips hovered just over hers. "Each of those fashionably pallid ladies was but the merest slip of shadow against the blinding glow of your beauty."

She leaned up and kissed him and the laundromat fell away. Didn't matter that they were in this dumpy place, didn't matter that they were going to have to scrape up money for a new washer, didn't matter they still needed to save the world.

All that mattered was that they did it all together.


End file.
